


A Magic Moment

by alexxphoenix42



Series: A Magic Moment [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Bisexuality, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Humor, Intoxication, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Masturbation, Minor Character Death Mentioned, Minor Violence, Misunderstandings, Potterlock, Quidditch, Really very sweet, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Sexy times implied, Sherlock's POV, Slow Build, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:05:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1771774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/pseuds/alexxphoenix42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Although John and Sherlock were both upper-level students at Hogwarts, they had never had a reason to actually speak before that night in detention together. Sherlock discovers there's just something about John that he can't pin down. Obviously John is something that requires a little more study.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [huvudrollen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/huvudrollen/gifts).



> Many thanks to Ttime42 for their fantastic [ cover ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9896039)for this story. I love it. ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little cross-over fic with the Harry Potter universe picks up some years past the Battle of Hogwarts with Voldy-thingie. In doing some annoying math, I have actually figured out that this takes place in ta dah, 2014. If Teddy Lupin was born in 1998, and is sixteen now, we've reached this year. Huzzah!
> 
> This story is not Brit-picked, so if any Brits see glaring Americanisms in here, please drop me a line, and I'll try to fix! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> *********

Sherlock had of course noticed the shorter boy around Hogwarts. He observed and recorded anything of interest that happened in the school. If his insomnia had him roaming the halls, and he spied a teacher sneaking back from someone else’s rooms in the wee hours, he made note of it. One never knew when a little blackmail information might be useful come exams time.

Though he had never focused on John Watson in particular, he knew the sixth-year boy was a prefect, and star beater on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He was dating that pretty girl, Maria Morstan, another Gryffindor - so pedestrian. Appearance-wise, John was fairly average. He was of medium height, with sandy blond hair, and a flashing smile that he used often on that herd of Gryffindors always hanging around him. So though as a seventh-year Ravenclaw Sherlock had never had a reason to speak John _directly_ before their detention night together, he certainly knew who the boy was.

Sherlock studied the Gryffindor from the side of his eye as they waited outside Filch’s office. It was unusual seeing a prefect serve detention. John Watson looked very out of place standing there, head bowed, shifting his weigh nervously back and forth as they waited to hear their punishment. Sherlock was no more happy to be here than John. He thought longingly of the new stack of library scrolls on native poisonous plants he had waiting on his bedside table, and suppressed a sigh. Best to just get this business over with as quickly as possible he decided.

John looked up briefly. “Evening.” He nodded, his sandy hair slipping down across one side of his forehead. Sherlock nodded a greeting, noting a slight purpling bruise around John’s right eye socket before the shorter boy ducked his head again. John stared so intently at his shoes that Sherlock glanced down too wondering if there was something special about John’s footwear, but it was just an ordinary slightly-scuffed set of trainers. They were clearly well-worn, (John didn’t come from money), and the laces, pulled tighter on one side plus that right black eye obviously pointed to John being left-handed.

Finally the stroppy old caretaker emerged from his office, his cat, Mrs. Norris, winding around his heels right behind. “Ere now, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?” he asked squinting at the two of them. 

“Yes, sir,” they muttered together as if on cue.

“Looks like you fine fellows are mine tonight.” Filch thrust a stack of rags, and a can of polish into their hands with a small sneer. He liked nothing better than giving out menial tasks to those who didn’t know their place. 

“You two bruisers can spend a little energy polishing the plaques in the entrance corridor of the east wing tonight. You should have it done in about three hours give or take,” he chortled, “and mind you, no magic! It’s all by hand or you’ll do two more hallways tomorrow night. Ah hang on, You’ll need this to reach the high ones.” He ducked back into his office only to reemerge shortly with a long folding ladder that he leaned against the wall. “That’ll do the trick.”

"Yes, sir," John, ever the prefect, mumbled back politely. "Thank you, sir."

With that, the two boys lifted the ladder to settle it over their shoulders. John went first by unspoken decision that Sherlock, being taller, should take the back half.

“Three hours. I’ll be watching. Off you go.” Filch waved a scrawny hand their way as he retreated into his lair.

Sherlock allowed himself a small sigh as they set off, accursed ladder and supplies in hand. Sherlock noted when John echoed his sigh, blowing out a whoosh of air of his own.

“Bollocks,” John muttered. “Not what I planned to do with a Friday night.”

Mrs. Norris yowled down the hallway at their retreating backs as if to fling a final taunt. “Serves you right, wankers!” it almost said.

Wanker, indeed. Mummy would have a fit if she heard that Sherlock had done something as plebian as serving detention for getting into a fight. Last week in Herbology class had been a misery and he’d finally lashed out at Anderson, a less-than scintillating Slytherin student who sat next to him in class. He could take all the unimaginative insults that Anderson cared to hiss at him, but when he’d caught the idiot sabotaging his winged fern, pouring vinegar on its roots, Sherlock had snapped. Somehow in the scuffle, the small bottle had disappeared, and Anderson had ended up moaning on the floor with Sherlock looming over him when a teacher appeared on the scene. That lying git, Anderson, had gotten off scot-free while Sherlock was stuck doing servant’s work for the weekend. The world could be so thoroughly unreasonable at times.

At the first hallway juncture, Sherlock tried to turn one way, while John tried to go another. It was almost vaudeville when they swung around in a circle.

“Hey, mate, what are you up to?” John called back, confused.

Sherlock sighed. “Obviously if we went left we’ll have to carry this ladder up and down two staircases. If we stay to the right, it’s a slightly longer walk, but we’ll stay on the same level.” Sherlock huffed in as bored a tone as he could possibly manage. Honestly.

“Oh, yeah. Good thinking. Right on then,” John said. Sherlock had been braced for a fight. If anyone had been looking at him at just that moment, they would have seen a rare expression of surprise flit briefly across his chiseled features. Sherlock schooled himself to his usual mask of indifference, and merely hmmphed as they made the right turn in stride.

*** 

“God!” John said as they set the ladder to the floor. They stepped back to view the herculean task before them. Small mounted brass plaques announcing this or that alumni event stretched as far along the corridor’s stone walls as the eye could see. “This is even worse than I thought!” John ran both hands through his hair, the movement raising his blue hoodie up a notch to expose a small strip of skin and dusting of golden hair over his belt. “Bloody hell! This will take three DAYS, not three hours.”

“Relax.” Sherlock quirked a small smile, pretending not to notice the small reveal of John’s lightly-furred belly. “Filch doesn’t really expect us to clean them all in one night. He’ll leave us here to sweat, send Mrs. Norris to check on us after an hour, and then show up at the three hour mark to send us to bed. It doesn’t matter how much we get done just that we spend the time here.”

“Oh, okay.” John put his hands on his hips and peered up into Sherlock’s face as if seeing him for the first time. “How do you know so much? Been in detention a lot, then?”

“No. Like you this is my first time. I simply . . . observe,” Sherlock clipped his words out tightly.

“Fair enough,” John said. “Might as well get started. Why don’t you take the left side and I’ll take the right as high up as we can reach, and then get the ladder out last.” 

Sherlock replied with a vaguely affirmative noise, and they opened the polish tin to began the arduous task of removing each plaque for cleaning.

“Wonder who Heila Hordbucket was?” John snickered, pulling a plaque down. “Supposedly she was awarded the Gargling Snorbeck award for service to Magical Creatures of Hogwarts.”

“I’ve got one better than that,” Sherlock said, lifting one of his own. “Gaylord Ramsbottom was thanked for his gifts to Hogwarts with the Bronze Snootch award.”

“I guess you just can’t make these things up,” John chuckled. “Hey pass the ladder over. There’s a couple up at the top that look really cracking.”

Sherlock obligingly helped John lean the ladder against the wall, and watched as the boy climbed up to reach some of the higher plaques. From then on, the evening took a decidedly enjoyable turn as they competed to find the most outrageous names to read aloud. John suggested that whoever made the other laugh the loudest was owed a butterbeer on the next Hogsmeade trip. Sherlock, who couldn’t see a way to lose in the equation, readily agreed. They even laughed when Mrs. Norris made an appearance right on cue, and hissed disapprovingly at their jolly antics. It felt . . . nice sharing the task with someone. The time seemed to be passing quickly.

“We probably shouldn’t look like we’re having too much fun,” Sherlock said as Mrs. Norris turned and sauntered off with a disapproving tail high in the air. Hopefully she would simply report back to Filch that yes, they were still in the entrance corridor busily polishing the bloody plaques as directed.

“Oh, sod that. This one looks REALLY epic!” John called down as he stretched for an award just out of reach.

“John, be careful,” Sherlock said. “These ladders really aren’t meant . . .” 

Whatever wisdom Sherlock might have been imparting was lost when the ladder wobbled, and John slipped, bringing boy and ladder crashing down. Sherlock didn’t have time to think. He was under John, and catching him before you could say “wingardium leviosa” which Sherlock did manage to mutter as he threw his arms out. It might have worked a bit sans wand as John did slow slightly before slamming Sherlock to the ground. Regardless, they ended up in a confused heap, John on top of Sherlock as they sprawled over the stone floor.

Sherlock looked up and wondered if his half-spell might have worked in slowing time as well as John’s fall. His usual internal metronome that generally parsed and accounted the time seemed to have stalled. The moment had simply stopped, stretching out like the event horizon to a black hole – a never-ending field of now. Sherlock watched the light from the wall torches as it stopped flickering, and hung suspended, pooling lazily like honey across the light stubble on John’s jaw, and the sweep of his sandy blond fringe. It illuminated the fractal of colors in John's wide-open eyes, revealing indigo blue flecked with small bits of brown around huge pupils. It fairly glistened off of lips parted into an astonished round “oh,” perfectly poised in their stilled state. What a beautiful landscape was the entirety of John’s face from the curve of his cheek to the insouciant tilt of his pug nose. Sherlock had memorized thousands of faces, what could it possibly be about this one face that had snared his attention so completely? He was at a loss to come up with a quick answer, and that irked him.

John stared back motionless. Was John also able to notice and scrutinize Sherlock’s features, or was he simply suspended like the world around them, trapped like a fly in amber? Sherlock inhaled then, and breathed in John. The boy smelled like the outdoors, of green growing things, Sherlock’s favorite lemon bombs (he must have eaten one on the way to detention), and a wonderful earthy, musky smell that was simply the essence of all things John. Sherlock closed his eyes then to better feel how warm and right John seemed pressed against him from chest to thigh. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this close, and this comfortable with another human being for this (who knew how long) moment of time.

Sherlock meant to say something like “fascinating” but all that came out was a choked “Ooooh.” He did have a mostly-grown Gryffindor sprawled across his torso after all. The bubble of frozen time popped with Sherlock’s exhale. John blinked, shifted his weight, momentarily pushing their groins closer together, and scrambled back to his feet. Sherlock enjoyed an elbow pressed into his stomach before the boy was back upright looking completely flustered. Sherlock missed the feeling of John’s weight as soon as the boy had peeled himself off of him. How strange was this feeling of not-John across his body. He felt suddenly untethered like he might just levitate, and float away with nothing substantial to weigh him down.

“God, Sherlock, I’m so sorry.” John bent over, bracing his hands on his knees to suck in a good breath. “That was really stupid of me. Are you okay?” Sherlock did a quick internal scan, and except for the slight bump on the back of his head, and a sore right hip (he would probably have a nice bruise there tomorrow), he seemed no worse for wear.

“Fine, I’m fine,” Sherlock huffed out.

“I can’t believe I was such an idiot.” John extended a hand to haul Sherlock upright. “Oh no, look at the mess!” John looked woefully at the ladder, and heaps of plaques that had been knocked to the floor around them. “Oh, this one is chipped,” John groaned, lifting one from the scattered pile. “Filch will KILL us for this. We’ll be polishing every plaque in the bloody building till summer break.” John scrubbed his hands miserably through his hair, pushing his fringe up on end. It looked like nothing so much as an angry hedgehog’s bristles for a moment.

Sherlock blinked at the fancy. For some reason he was having a bit of trouble getting his brain up and smoothly running. Perhaps he had hit the back of his skull harder than he originally thought. He dragged his eyes away from John, and slipped a hand into his trousers’ pocket. “Never fear, help is on the way,” he said confidently. Sherlock retrieved a small spoon from his pocket, and quickly stroked it across his left palm. “Honor given,” he said simply. 

John looked at him with a puzzled expression, but before he could ask the questions obviously dancing across his tongue, a small door that had been hidden in the pattern of the stones of the wall, pushed open. Out popped a small gnarled house elf wearing a clean dish towel tied like a kilt. He looked somewhat annoyed at having been clearly summoned, but once that he saw it was Sherlock, he lit up and bowed deeply from the waist. “Ah, Mr. Holmes, what can I do for you this night?”

“Good evening Clearius." Sherlock nodded politely. "I need some help. My associate and I require at least a third of all the plaques in this hallway cleaned and in good repair in the next hour.”

The house elf glanced up and down the hallway. “It would be our honor sir,” he said. Bowing, the elf disappeared back into the doorway clearly to find a crew to finish the task.

“Hang on a minute! This isn’t right.” John turned, lines creasing his forehead. “First off, who made you King of the house elves, and secondly, it isn’t right to give the house elves more work, and thirdly aren’t we supposed to be doing this without magic or Filch will have us doing the rest of the blooming castle?”

“The house elves owe me a favour.” Sherlock shrugged. “I helped them solve a small problem they had last year. They feel obliged to help me out now when I need it. We aren’t really giving them more work. They keep up these halls. They’d probably redo any work we did tonight anyway. And Filch said things had to be done _by hand_. He didn’t say whose hand.”

“Oh, right,” John said with a sigh. Sherlock could see John standing down, his internal moral compass swinging back to the acceptable. “What the hell, eh? The house elves owe you a favour.” He laughed a small huff.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a moment, his mind spinning out scenarios. “Come on.” He reached out to catch John’s wrist. “We have a good hour and a half before Filch comes to stop us for the night, and we’ll just be in the house elves' way if we hang around here.”

“Where are we off to then?” John asked. He resisted Sherlock’s tug, and Sherlock found himself dropping the other boy’s arm.

“Come and see,” Sherlock said, gesturing ahead with a jut of his chin. “I have something I’d like to show you.” Sherlock turned and started up the hallway, refusing to glance behind him. He was gratified to hear the footsteps of the other boy falling in behind him. John's curiosity was obviously stronger than his misgivings. That was something to be noted Sherlock thought as a small smile curled across his face.


	2. Two

After leading John on a shortcut through a labyrinth of little used corridors and stairways, Sherlock pushed open the door to the Astronomy tower, ushering the Gryffindor ahead of him.

“Wow, I didn’t know half those hallways existed. You’re a regular bloodhound!” John said as they stepped out onto the dark platform. "I'm impressed." 

Sherlock felt glad for the cover of night that hid what he was sure was a warm blush rising across his face. “Some of the staircases move, but the hallways stay the same. Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I like to explore . . .” he tossed out airily.

“As a prefect, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that last bit,” John said with a smile in his voice. “Wow, it’s pretty up here tonight. The stars are really bright.” John craned his head back to take in the splendor of the night sky spread above them.

“It is quite lovely.” Sherlock glanced up as well. “Though that wasn’t my primary reason for bringing you up here.” He stepped closer to John.

“No?” John asked in a slightly strained tone.

Sherlock wasn’t sure if the chill night air was affecting John’s throat adversely, and made a mental note not to keep him outside too long in case it was. “No,” he replied simply, and reached out to grab John’s elbow, steering him to the wall overlooking the side yards and the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

“Look,” Sherlock said indicating the grounds below.

“Wow. What IS that?”

A thousand tiny pinpoints of light, like some earthly reflection of the stars above shimmered before the dark silhouettes of the trees spread below. Unlike the stars though, the tiny glowing dots moved irregularly, drifting and weaving about in a complicated phosphorescent light show.

“Luminous Wood Sprites,” Sherlock said.

“Sorry?” John asked.

Sherlock sighed. He hated repeating himself. “Those are Luminous Wood Sprites. Their mating dance occurs typically in early spring, and is best observed several hours after nightfall.”

John whistled long and low. “That is amazing.”

Sherlock felt a spot of warmth blooming in his chest just beneath his breastbone. “I’ve always thought so,” he said. “I’ve tried tracking their progress, seeing if they’re more active on cold nights versus warm nights, full moons versus waxing or waning moons.”

“What did you find out?”

“Generally, temperature has no effect on number of sprites, but colder nights seems to slow down their movements, and darker moons tend to draw more numbers than full moons. Of course then I checked a book out of the library ‘The Life and Mating Habits of the Common Luminous Wood Sprite’ by Luna Lovegood, and found that I had simply duplicated work already recorded in exacting detail, but what can I say, I was seven at the time.”

“Ah, well, it’s still lovely to watch,” John said. Sherlock merely grunted in reply, and the two of them continued to watch the light display in amiable silence.

“So, what got you into detention tonight, if you don’t mind my asking?” John asked off-handedly.

Generally Sherlock would have brushed aside such a personal question, but something about standing shoulder to shoulder under the cover of night seemed to invite a deeper intimacy than Sherlock was used to. He found himself actually telling John about the competition for top student in herbology, and Anderson, the Slytherin he had caught poisoning his final project after class.

“That’s a raw deal,” John said when Sherlock had finished. “But surely Professor Longbottom would understand if you tell him what happened directly? He’s a fair sort - unlike those rotten Slytherins. Ugh, they make my blood boil.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock quipped. “Your run in with a Slytherin got you detention tonight.”

“Did you see my fight?” John's voice went tight again.

“Nope, I deduce,” Sherlock replied calmly. “You were raised by a single mother, a Muggle, and you’re sensitive to teasing about it. When a Slytherin called her a ‘Mudblood,’ you lost your temper, and let him have it."

“You’ve heard people telling stories about me then?”

“Hardly. You carry your story with you. Your casual clothing is Muggle-made, of lower quality – denotes a single mother struggling to make ends meet. You are a prefect, and not in the habit of getting into brawls, but you have a temper, and you’re sentimental about your mother. A slur to her would be one of the few things to induce you into engaging in a fist fight. The only other thing would have been defending a younger, weaker student, but you were too embarrassed about serving detention tonight for it to have been that. Hence, my deduction.”

Silence hung over the astronomy tower for a moment. Sherlock took in a deep breath waiting for John to tell him to stuff it when John broke the silence. “That’s brilliant. That’s absolutely brilliant.”

“You think so?” Sherlock asked, surprised.

“Absolutely,” John said. “I wish I could do that.”

“Well, it just takes some study, and some practice of course.” Sherlock sniffed.

“And a great brilliant Ravenclaw mind,” John teased, bumping Sherlock's shoulder with his own.

If Sherlock had blushed earlier it was nothing to the cascade of heat that swamped over his face and neck at that. Sherlock made a hmph noise. He was trying to think of something else clever to say when John saved him the bother.

“Sherlock, what’s going on just there?” John pointed toward a particularly busy-looking swirl of lights below.

“Ah.” Sherlock nodded. “The males have the brighter lights, and the females the dimmer ones. What you are observing there are two females who have chosen the same male battling for the right to claim him.”

“So, the females duel then?” John asked.

“Yes, the females are by far the more fierce of the species, and they compete for the males.”

“Ooh, that must have hurt.” John winced as one of the glowing dots was obviously slam-dunked into the ground.

Sherlock made a noncommittal _hmmm_ noise in reply.

“How about over there?” John asked nudging Sherlock in the ribs, and pointing toward a number of lights that were moving rhythmically in small arcs closer to the ground.

“Ah.” Sherlock paused to clear his throat. “Those would be the pairs that have found a mate, and are consummating their common interest,” he said in the driest of tones he could manage.

“Ah,” John replied in an equally dry tone.

After a few moments of watching the lights swirl and dip in almost hypnotic patterns, John seemed to collect himself with a shake. “Well, this is starting to feel a bit ‘peeping tomish’ if you know what I mean? Spying on them like this.” He chuckled.

“Well, in the interest of science, keen and consistent observation is key,” Sherlock said stiffly.

“Oh, hang on, I didn’t mean you . . . I mean . . .” John began.

“Why don’t we head back down?” Sherlock cut in smoothly. “We don’t want to be absent when Filch comes to check on us.”

“Oh, right, yeah. Of course,” John said, and followed Sherlock as he led the way to the door, and back inside.

 

***

Sherlock didn’t see John over the next two days, but that wasn’t unusual. They didn’t have any classes together, and Sherlock tended to eat at odd times to avoid the crowds in the dining hall, either at the very beginning or end of meal times. He skipped lunch and dinner all together on Sunday to work on a particularly tricky potion he was making for an advanced project.

On Monday though, they both ended up at breakfast at the same time. Sherlock was making short work of a bowl of porridge with raisins, listening vaguely to the two Ravenclaws called Gavin, and Molly next to him discussing the possible origins of time when a familiar sandy blond head bobbed into the dining hall. John took a place at the Gryffindor table followed by his usual crowd of admirers. That girl, Maria, was sitting especially close to him. She seemed to be chewing on his left ear, and John looked nothing so much as annoyed as he tried to reach around her for a plate of eggs.

Sherlock felt grateful for the distraction of the mail arriving shortly thereafter. The procession of owls swooped in carrying their letters and packages for the students. He was hoping to get the latest edition of _The Practical Potioneer_ , but sadly that was not to be his fate this morning. Instead, his sleek dark owl, Merlin, dropped a big red envelope into Sherlock's lap with an apologetic squawk before flapping quickly off.

“Oooh, Sherlock’s got a howler!” Gavin chortled wide-eyed, leaning in for a better look. “Better open it fast, mate, before it works up any more steam.”

Sherlock sighed. He should have been expecting this he mused glumly. He lifted the slightly-smoking thing off his lap, and slid his thumb under the flap breaking the seal. The letter immediately lifted into the air and opened wide to screech at him in ear-pounding volume. “WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES, WHAT DO YOU MEAN GETTING INTO A FIGHT, AND SERVING DETENTION AT SCHOOL? IF YOUR FATHER WERE ALIVE HE WOULD BE SO DISAPPOINTED! YOUR BROTHER NEVER . . .”

The howler scolded him in one big wash of condemnation in his mother’s amplified dulcet tones. Sherlock let it roll over him as he slumped lower in his seat, heat creeping over his face. It was mortifying, and horribly predictable all at the same time. When the diatribe was finally over, the missive burst into flame, raining a small cloud of ash into his empty bowl. With chuckles ringing in his sore ears, Sherlock grabbed the pile of books next to his seat, and exited the room as quickly as possible without looking like he was actually fleeing. He headed for the courtyard, and set himself up on a bench with the largest book he had propped on his knees in front of him. He was surprised when a familiar face appeared at his side.

“No fun those howlers, eh?” John said kindly, plopping down on the bench next to him.

“No, they are designed to be unpleasant,” Sherlock agreed.

“If it’s any comfort, my mum would have sent me a howler too, if she knew they existed. There’s some advantage to having a Muggle parent.” John smiled at him.

“I can see that.” Sherlock nodded.

“Hey, I never got a chance to thank you for your help at detention the other night. If it weren’t for you and your chums, I would have been polishing till my arm fell off.”

“It was nothing.” Sherlock shrugged.

“No, it was great, and the tour through the castle – that was brilliant!”

A very small smile stole across Sherlock’s face without his permission. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Listen. I reckon you made me laugh the loudest with the plaques, and I owe you a butterbeer. There’s a trip to Hogsmeade coming up next weekend. Fancy meeting up at Three Broomsticks? . . . If you’re still interested? . . . I mean if you’re not busy that is.”

Still interested? Sherlock wasn’t sure wild dragons could have dragged him away from another opportunity to closely observe John in action. There was just something about the boy that was hard to pin down. John Watson was definitely something that required more study. Still, Sherlock had a delicate potion brewing that would be ready for bottling some time Saturday morning.

“Yes, I can be free by Saturday afternoon. Say around 2 pm?”

“Brilliant.” John smiled widely. “It’s a date . . . erm, I’ll see you there!” With a wave, John dashed into the flow of students moving back into the castle.

Even though the early spring air was still quite nippy out, Sherlock felt a definite warming about his person. Almost as if in response to his suddenly uplifted mood, the sun broke free from the clouds overhead, and flooded the courtyard with a cheery light.


	3. Three

Despite the fact that he'd thought much about John over the school week, and noted every time he’d glimpsed him in the halls (five times,) or seen him across the dining room (twelve times,) Sherlock found himself in danger of being very late for their meeting on Saturday. It couldn’t be helped - his dragon tonic took a good bit longer to finish than he’d first anticipated. When he finally poured it into the waiting bottle though, it shimmered a nice bright green just as it ought to. Sherlock smiled to himself. He should get top marks for it when he turned it in to Potions class on Monday. 

He quickly checked his last two potions still simmering in the back of his nook in the potions lab. One was a polyjuice potion, and the other, felix felicis – liquid luck. If things went according to plan, they should both be ready in a few weeks. If he got the mixes right, he'd have the top student place in Advanced Potions for certain. He hadn’t breathed a word to anyone about working on the felix – it was extremely difficult and few students, even few adults attempted to make the stuff. Once he was satisfied with the progress of his brews, he put the protective wards back over his area, and moved to wash up at the sink. He was surprised when he almost ran smack into Molly Hooper. She was one of his fellow Ravenclaws who he not only tolerated, but actually liked on occasion. She was super about letting him copy her notes when an experiment with his potions kept him from attending regular classes. 

“Oh hullo, Molly. I didn’t see you come in.” 

“You were concentrating so much on your tonic I didn’t want to disturb you. It looks brilliant by the way.” She smiled up at him in that bubbly way she had.

“Thanks. What are you working on?” Sherlock asked as he set his things into the sink. 

“Bitterroot Balm,” Molly said with a sigh, stirring the concoction in her small cauldron. "My last batch curdled before I could finish it. I was supposed to turn it in by Friday, but Professor Leech gave me the weekend to redo it." 

Sherlock stepped over to sniff at her brew. “Did you add the dittany before the belladonna?”

“No the book said to do the belladonna first.” 

“The book is wrong, add the dittany first, and give an extra stirring before you add anything else. That always works a charm for me.”

“Thanks, Sherlock. I’ll try that.” Molly’s eyes fairly twinkled.

“Uh, Molly. Molls.” Sherlock put on the friendly smile that people generally responded well to. “Would you mind terribly cleaning my equipment when you wash up? I’m in a bit of a hurry, and need to dash.” 

“Got a hot date, then?” Molly teased. 

“Erm, well I’m meeting someone at the Three Broomsticks for a drink.” 

“Oh, oh.” Molly’s whole demeanor shifted. She seemed to fold in on herself, her teasing face turning to something much more glum. “Of course, yeah, I can wash your things with mine, no problem. Have a good time with her.”

Her? Sherlock puzzled that out for a moment. “Um, actually I’m not meeting a girl. It’s a friend, John Watson. He’s . . . a Gryffindor.”

“Oh, yeah, I know John.” Molly brightened up considerably again. It was odd, like watching the sun flit in and out from behind some clouds. “You know, I might head into Hogsmeade too once I finish this up. I could join you at the Broomsticks, if you’re still there?”

“Oh, I’m sorry Molly, we didn’t really talk about including other people. I wouldn’t want to spring it on John.” Sherlock pulled his face into a sad pout. “Sorry I can’t ask you along.” 

“No, it’s no problem.” Molly smiled quickly. “There’s another potion I could work on today anyway. I might put off a trip into town to another day. Thanks for the tip about the dittany first.”

“Of course.” Sherlock nodded. “I’m sure your potion will turn out much better that way.” 

 

***

Sherlock felt thankful that he had passed apparating classes just a few weeks ago. As soon as he cleared the school grounds, he turned on the spot, and reappeared outside the Three Broomsticks. He was one of the last in his form to learn apparating. He’d started at Hogwarts at age ten by special dispensation, but the Apparating Board was quite strict that all witches and wizards needed to be seventeen to be allowed to travel like adults. He'd had to test with mostly sixth years to earn the right. Rules were _such_ tedious things when they couldn't be broken.

Sherlock pushed into the pub, and paused at the wash of noise and warmth that greeted him within. Through the busy crowd, he spied John’s familiar blond head at a small side table. He was idly moving an almost-empty mug of butter beer around the table. He perked up when he saw Sherlock though, and cheerfully waved him over. 

“Sherlock, I’m glad you made it . . .”

“John, I’m sorry I’m so late . . .” 

They both started talking at once as Sherlock slid into the seat opposite him. John chuckled and gestured at Sherlock to go first. 

“Sorry I’m so late, I had a potion that didn’t want to finish.”

“What were you working on?”

“Dragon tonic,” Sherlock said. “It was extra credit for my potions class.” 

“Oh, that’s a tough one.” John whistled. “I can see how it gave you trouble. Someone tried to make that in my class last fall, and blew out half the wall in the potions room when it went bad.” 

“Oh that was your class, was it? Professor Leech is still shuddering about that.” 

After they had both chuckled about it for a moment, John offered to get Sherlock his butter beer. At Sherlock's agreement, John left briefly to place his order at the bar. Sherlock glanced around the room. He didn’t come into the Three Broomsticks often, preferring quieter venues, but he had to admit the diversity of the crowd, and the animated conversations swirling around him were interesting. He was just starting to eavesdrop on an interesting chat from what he was sure was a pair of vampires behind him when John returned with two frothy mugs of butter beer. He set one before Sherlock, and slid into his seat holding the other. 

“Cheers,” John said, clinking mugs before taking a healthy sip. Sherlock followed suit with a long drink as well. It had been awhile since he’d had fresh, warm butter beer, and it was quite delicious. 

When John lowered his glass, he had a full mustache left across his upper lip from the drink’s foam. When Sherlock chuckled about it, he was treated to the delightful sight of John licking it all off with his tongue, and leaning in to ask if he’d got it all. 

Sherlock mirrored John, pointed to his own mouth, “You’ve missed a bit just there.” He laughed when John crossed his eyes, and strained comically to reach the last bit of foam with his tongue tip.

“So what happened with your winged fern, and Professor Longbottom? Did you get that straightened out?” John asked him, finally just wiping his mouth clean with a napkin.

Sherlock told him how helpful the teacher had been when he'd explained his side, demoting Anderson to take herbology with first years for the rest of the term. John cheered the good news, and it made Sherlock feel even better to relay the event to John than when he'd first experienced it. Curious.

He asked John how Quidditch practice was going, and though it wasn’t something he’d ever given much thought to, listening to John describe Quidditch strategy made the game come alive for him in a way it never had before. Soon they were trading stories of their week, and sharing a plate of pasties, and another round of butter beers that Sherlock had gotten. They were surprised to see how low the sun had dipped outside, when they finally looked up and noticed how much time had passed. Sherlock was just about to suggest walking back to Hogwarts together, when a blonde girl swathed in a pink cloak burst into the pub, and unerringly made her way to John’s side. It was Maria Morstan of course. She barely spared Sherlock a glance before pouncing on John. 

“Johnny, I looked for you all over. I thought we were meeting at Padma’s Tea Shop at five?” She pouted, tossing her long pale ponytail over her shoulder to accentuate her words.

“Sorry, sweet, I said maybe. It wasn’t a done deal.” John rubbed a hand over his head as he leaned back to take in the piqued female looming over him. “I am sorry you were looking for me though.” John flashed her a brilliant smile that seemed to soothe her ruffled feathers as he reached out to squeeze her hand.

Sherlock watched the exchange with something between horror, and fascination at seeing human courting behaviour up close and personal. It was always interesting to see the non-verbal call and response entrained couples performed with each other. 

“Maria, this is Sherlock, I don’t think you two have met.” John swept a hand out to indicate Sherlock across from him. 

The girl seemed to collect herself, forced to behave politely in a prescribed social situation, and nodded her head his way. “Pleasure to meet you,” she said.

“Likewise,” Sherlock intoned, nodding back. 

“Oooh, this is the one who got you out of detention then?” Maria said suddenly, as some light bulb clicked on above her head. 

“Well, don’t go spreading it around too loudly,” John cautioned with a tight smile, “but yeah.”

Maria took the opportunity to make herself welcome by flinging her person onto John’s lap, and throwing her arm around his neck. He oofed slightly, but caught her around the waist to steady her. 

“How did you get the house elves to follow your orders?” she asked Sherlock turning wide blue eyes his way. 

“I didn’t order them, I merely requested,” Sherlock said. “Few persons enjoy being ordered about.”

“Well, they are just house elves after all,” Maria said after thinking a moment. “It’s what they do, right?” She reached out to snag John’s mug and took a drink. 

“The elves may maintain the buildings of Hogwarts, and tend to the broad needs of its inhabitants, but satisfying whims of individual students is definitely of their own prerogative.” Sherlock told her in case she had some ridiculous notion of tracking down a house elf to carry her school books around for her.

“Ravenclaw,” she said, narrowing her eyes to peer more closely at Sherlock. “I can always spot the Ravenclaws a kilometre away.” Maria smiled at him in an odd twist of her mouth. She laughed as though it were a great joke, and drained the last of John’s mug. 

Sherlock found himself regretting that he hadn’t encouraged Molly to join them at the pub after she was done with her work after all. 

John, seeming to realize how things were sliding south, gave Maria a brief hug around the middle, and then chivvied her off his lap as he stood as well. 

“Well, Sherlock I thank you for a wonderful chat, but I think we need to be going. Things to do, mischief to get into,” he joked, smiling at Maria again. “See ya round?” he directed Sherlock’s way. 

“Indeed.” Sherlock drew himself up as much as he could. “Nice to meet you," he said to Maria, forcing her to echo the sentiment again.

“You too. Bye!” She trilled her fingers as John held up a hand in farewell, herding the pink young woman ahead of him out the door. 

Sherlock sighed. He had thought to stop by Blathers Herb Shop on the way back to school to pick up a few things, but now he was just feeling weary, and wanted to be back as soon as possible. He left a galleon on the table as a tip, and made his way outside where the temperature had definitely dropped into the chilly.


	4. Four

Sherlock and John didn’t cross paths much over the next few days. He only caught a glimpse of John twice in the dining hall, and both of those times he’d had Maria wrapped over him like a Devil’s Snare plant. Sherlock had thought that perhaps that would be it, his friendship with John cut off before it even had a chance to bud. He knew the vagaries of human nature, and wasn’t too surprised by it . . . not really. He had his potions projects, and ample classwork to keep him busy, it wasn’t as if he _needed_ the distraction of someone new in his life for entertainment. Still, he couldn’t keep himself from scanning any clumps of students he passed in the halls in search of a certain blond head.

He was quite surprised when John appeared before him that Tuesday night in the library. Sherlock had been deep in the midst of research for a counter-curses essay, but had left off to daydream, wondering what animal John might be if he were an animagus, when he looked up to find John, of all people, right at his elbow.

“Oh, good, I was hoping I’d find you here.” John worked to catch his breath, a film of sweat sticking his fringe to his forehead as he dropped into the seat opposite him.

“You’ve rushed here all the way here from Quidditch practice,” Sherlock observed raising an eyebrow, only mildly flustered.

“Yeah, I didn’t want to risk getting here after the library closed and missing you.”

“How did you know I’d be in the library?” Sherlock pressed. He hoped he wasn’t being rude, but his curiosity warred with his pleasure at seeing John. Sadly, polite always lost out to curious.

“You’re a Ravenclaw.” John looked like he would have been laughing if he’d had more breath to spare.

“That is true,” Sherlock said. “I do spend some evenings elsewhere, but obviously your guess paid off.” Sherlock couldn’t help being somewhat proud of John’s simple, but effective deductions.

“Listen, I need your help . . . if you’re free that is.”

“Oh?” Sherlock asked.

John dug into a pocket and fished out a folded-up piece of paper that he dropped onto the table between them. Mystified, Sherlock reached over to pick it up, unfolding it to lie flat. It looked to be an Arithmancy exam. John’s name was on the top, and a large “T” was scrawled across it in red pen. 

“You got a Troll on your Arithmancy exam? That’s impressive.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Impressive, yes, but not good,” John said. “Professor Mobius suggested I get a tutor.” John shifted around in his seat. “I knew you were one of his top students in Advanced Arithmancy, and if you weren’t too busy, I wondered . . . I mean, I don’t have any money to pay you . . .” John trailed off looking hopeful.

Something in Sherlock’s chest clenched. John was a proud person. Sherlock could see how much he didn’t want to ask anyone for a favour, and yet here he was doing so. Sherlock would tutor him for nothing, it wasn’t even a concern. Friends did this for one another, yes? He just couldn’t make it look anything like a charity case.

Sherlock thought for a moment. “I can tutor you, that’s not a problem. Going by your work on this exam you seem to have a grasp of the basic formulas, you simply aren’t using them in the right places. I suggest a fair trade of services. I have need of a partner for an upcoming Potion’s project. You help me with that, I help you with Arithmancy, and we call it even.”

John blew out a breath. “Yeah, sure I’ll help any way I can, but I’m not a year seven in Potions. I’m not sure how much help I’ll actually be.”

A tiny smile quirked up one side of Sherlock’s mouth. “Don’t worry, you won’t need to be versed in advanced work to help me with this project. A basic knowledge of Potions will serve you just fine.”

“Ah, all right then. You’ve got yourself a deal.” John leaned in, stuck out his hand to shake, and Sherlock took it. John tightened his fingers around his, and moved their hands up and down in tandem. Such a strange social custom when you thought about it, this moving of hands vertically together. Sherlock had read that it stemmed from the gesture of strangers showing empty hands free of weapons upon meeting. It was such a small thing this pressing of palms, and yet Sherlock had to forcibly restrain himself to release John when he relaxed his grip, not letting his fingers linger over John’s wrist as he pulled away.

John cocked his head to the side to regard him as they sat back. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Of course," Sherlock said, tilting his own head in unconscious mimicry. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.” 

John startled as the sound of a bell rang out around them. The library was closing. Sherlock pulled his focus together, and began gathering up his many books and papers to stuff into his schoolbag. “I assume Mondays and Wednesdays after supper will be our best bet for free time in common?”

“Yeah, that’s right," John said, handing him a weighty hardback titled _Best Practices Against the Dark Arts_. “I have Quidditch practice on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“Good, I’ll speak to Professor Mobius about using a free classroom. We should have something set up by next week.” Sherlock accepted the book from him, and shoved it in with its compatriots already bulging out his pack. He couldn’t quite close the top, but slung it over his shoulder anyway.

John fell in to step beside him as they worked their way out of the library. They were the last students to straggle out, and Madam Tome, the librarian, glared at them as she locked the door behind them with a click. They hadn’t gone three steps when the top two books slid back out of Sherlock’s bag and smacked onto the floor.

John chuckled as he reached down to pick them up. “Honestly, did you have to bring most of the library home with you?” 

“I left half the books I was using behind,” Sherlock sniffed.

“Here, let me take another of those.” John pulled at the top book sticking out of Sherlock’s bag, and added it to the pile in his arms.

“It’s a wonder you haven’t hurt yourself carrying that much about. All you Ravenclaws must have biceps of steel from the books you haul around. I’ll know never to get into a fistfight with you lot.” John winked at him, and Sherlock felt something warm blooming inside him in response.

“Only the advanced students, mind,” Sherlock said with a smile. “Some of those in the regular classes settle for abridged notes.”

John laughed, and Sherlock added his own chuckle to the wonderful sound.

“Hmm, did you like this one?” John asked, holding out the top book – _Dark Potions of Note_ by Maleficent Grundle. "I thought it was too out-of-date to be of any actual use. Everyone knows Erumpent horn doesn’t really do anything in potions, and you can’t permanently reverse the aging process." 

“I found its antiquated nature to be a fascinating study in how magical knowledge and practices have progressed over the years,” Sherlock returned.

“Ah, fair enough," John said. He added the book back to his pile, and they continued down the hall in companionable silence.

They reached the split where they’d have to part ways for Sherlock to reach the Ravenclaw tower, and John to head for the Gryffindor dorm, but John simply made the turn in stride with him.

“Erm . . . you don’t have to come all the way with me. I have carried my books back to my dorm before, you know,” Sherlock said, hoping John wouldn’t agree.

“I know - biceps of steel and all that,” John agreed, not looking at him, “but I need you in top form for my Arithmancy tutoring. I wouldn’t want a strained muscle to keep you from being at your best.” John slid a side glance his way, and Sherlock found himself grinning without even meaning to.

“Ah, fair enough,” Sherlock said, tamping his smile back down.

They reached the stairway to the Ravenclaw rooms only to find two younger Slytherin students huddled in conversation blocking their path.

“Oi, what are you two doing in this part of the castle so late?” John called, stepping forward.

“What’s it to ya?” the bulkier one asked, puffing himself up, but the smaller one’s eyes flickered down to the prefect badge on John’s school robe.

“Ah, we were just out stretching our legs. We’re on our way to our dorms now, _sir_.” He was a slight blond boy with narrow eyes that slitted even smaller as he bowed before John. It wasn’t clear whether he was being cheeky or not, but John, obviously deciding to take the high road, just waved them on.

“Good. See that you stretch your legs getting back to your common room as fast as you can.”

"Yes, sir." The two retreated swiftly enough down the corridor.

“Wonder what that lot was actually up to,” John mused.

“They were probably trying to crack the password puzzle to the Ravenclaw dorms. The Slytherins are always daring each other to sneak over and attempt it. I don’t believe any of them have managed it to date.”

“You have a puzzle? You don’t just have a password to get into your door?” John's eyebrows lifted.

“What would be the fun in that?” Sherlock said. “No, the door asks you a riddle or a problem to solve to be allowed entrance.”

“It’s new every time?” John frowned.

“There wouldn’t be much point in solving a question you already knew, would there?” Sherlock said, confused.

“No point, of course,” John huffed out a small laugh. “I think that would just give me headache, but you Ravenclaws are welcome to it. So look, I’ll see you Monday?”

 "Yes, I’ll send you a note for the ‘where’ as soon as I have the room settled.” 

John handed Sherlock his extra books. He hesitated as if he wanted to say something more, but settled for a cheery wave as he backed away.

“Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John.”

Sherlock watched John’s jaunty walk all the way down the hallway until he turned out of sight.

The magic door asked him a question that was laughably simple to answer, but then Sherlock supposed it couldn’t have puzzles that were _too_ hard or most of the students wouldn’t make it to their beds in the evening.

“Your new friend, he’s nice,” Molly said as Sherlock slid into a seat beside her at the big table in the common room.

“I beg your pardon?” Sherlock didn't look up as pulled books and half-done scrolls from his bag, carefully making piles on the table by some sorting process known only to himself.

“Your friend, John Watson, he’s really nice,” Molly repeated, amused. “I saw the two of you in the library together earlier.”

“How do you know John Watson?” Sherlock asked, finally glancing up to catch Molly in a piercing stare.

“We were in the infirmary for a few days together last fall?” Molly had a habit of making statements into questions, and Sherlock merely waited patiently for her to continue. “He’d had that nasty fall in Quidditch, and had some bones in his feet to regrow, and I’d had that spell backfire that left purple tentacles on my face? Everyone was so horrid to me about it, but John was so kind. He didn’t make any sushi jokes, and we ended up playing Snap and War together the whole time.”

Sherlock merely nodded and hmpphed at her, and returned to his work hoping to finish his essay before it grew too late.

 

***

Once Sherlock got the room assignment for their tutoring sessions cleared with Professor Mobius, he debated sending John an owl with a written note, but decided that was silly. He could just walk across the dining room and tell John face to face. People _did_ that sort of thing.

Sherlock had finished his dinner some time ago, but he waited to time his appearance just right. He wanted to catch John just as he was leaving, meeting up casually as if by happenstance at the door on their way out. John had been sitting with Maria snugged against him, but he was much more focused on the boy at his other side who was amusing half the table growing and shrinking his rainbow-coloured hair at an impressive rate. He was obviously a metamorphmagus. Sherlock fished around in his memory – Teddy Lupin he was called - captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and godson to the famous Harry Potter. He was a bit of a celebrity himself around the school. When John, Teddy, Maria, and several other Gryffindors finally pushed away from their table, Sherlock was poised to strike. He casually packed the book he’d been pretending to read into his bag, and made to stand. Of course at that exact moment a Ravenclaw called Amir plunked down on the bench next to him, blocking his view of the door, and touched his sleeve.

“Hey Sherlock, glad I caught you. Professor Leech is looking for you. He needs some equipment, and he said you seem to have three of everything checked out. He was going to search your corner of the potions lab, but wanted to ask you if anything was sensitive before they moved stuff.”

Sherlock had been prepared to brush Amir off, but his words sunk into his brain with a plop. “Wait, what? Someone wants to move my things?”

“See, I know you’d be cheesed off if anyone messed with your work. You’d better get down there now.”

With a sigh, Sherlock let his chance to catch John slip by, and hurried to the potions room before anyone ruined months worth of work with their mucking about.

 

***

It was nearing dusk by the time Sherlock had met with the Potions master, returned all the equipment he didn’t need, and re-secured the two projects he was still brewing. Sherlock realized if he wanted to catch John, he could do a reverse, and find him at the end of his Quidditch practice. He hurried out of the castle and down to the playing fields before the sun set, and the Gryffindor team scattered.

The shadows were long as Sherlock entered the Quidditch pitch, and he had to squint against the lowering sun to watch the players whipping around on their brooms overhead. Sherlock found a seat on the bleachers, and perched to watch the end of the practice. John and the other Gryffindor beater, a girl with a long red braid, Victoire Weasely he thought her name was, were slamming a ball back and forth while the rest of the team flew a complicated pattern around the field. It was poetry in motion watching John’s sturdy form as he expertly darted about on his broom, stretching out to intercept the bludger. Sherlock had never been particularly interested in Quidditch, but it occurred to him that he might have been overly hasty in his dismissal of the game. The setting sun backlit John beautifully, edging his hair and limbs with a golden glow as he swung the bat in a perfect arc, hitting the bludger with a satisfying crack. It sailed back to the ginger girl heading straight for her nose until she moved at the last moment, and swung her bat to return it.

“Hey, watch it, John!” she called out.

“Sorry, Vic, that one got away from me” He grinned back.

A whistle blown stopped the play, and they spent several minutes rounding up errant balls, and gathering equipment before someone noticed him.

“Hey, is that a Slytherin spy?” A tall dark-haired boy cried out pointing straight at Sherlock.

John’s head turned. His mouth split into a grin when he saw him. “Naw, that’s just Sherlock. He’s Ravenclaw, and we already beat _them_ last week.”

John flew smoothly down to roll off his broom, dismounting easily at Sherlock’s feet.

“Wotcha, Sherlock.” John ran a hand back through his hair pushing his fallen fringe out of his eyes.

“Hello, John.”

“So, what do you think, do we have a chance of beating Slytherin next week?” John smiled. His eyes were bright, and his face slightly red from his recent efforts.

“There’s always a chance,” Sherlock said “though you’d have more of a chance if you sent their seeker an anonymous box of chocolates the night before. He’s a hopeless sweets addict, and he’ll have a stomach ache on your game day.”

John laughed. “I don’t think we’ll want to stoop to cheating to win a game.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Tell your seeker to fly low, their’s always flies too high, and watch their keeper, he tends to miss balls that come in on his right. Otherwise your blunt determination and sheer brawn will serve you well against them.”

John blinked. “Thanks, I think. Hey, give me a minute to finish up, and I’ll walk back to the castle with you.”

“Well, I just came to tell you . . .” Sherlock started, but another of the team called over interrupting.

“John, give us a hand with this bludger, it doesn’t want to go back in.”

“Right-o!” John called in return. “Just a mo’ Sherlock, I’ll be right back.” John smiled and jumped on his broom to sail over to the box where the offending bludger struggled against the two sets of hands already trying to push it down. John added an extra shove, and they slotted it into place, slamming the lid closed over it.

It was nearly dark by the time John joined him at the bleachers, and they headed back to the school falling easily into step.

“John, I wanted to let you know I got permission to meet in Professor Mobius’s classroom. We can start next Monday at seven o’clock?”

“Excellent. Listen, I do appreciate this. Hopefully I won’t be too thick-skulled to get basic Arithmancy right.” John sighed.

“Nonsense. You’re one of the few here I don’t considered congenitally idiotic.”

John chuckled. “I don’t suppose anyone’s ever told you that diplomacy was your strong suit?”

Sherlock blushed a bit. “Diplomacy, no? That would be my brother’s job.”

“Really? Who’s your brother and what does he do?”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock shuddered slightly at having to give voice to his overbearing older brother’s name. “Though I like to call him _He who shall not be named_. He has a minor position in the Ministry of Magic, though honestly, he practically runs the place.”

“Oh, I remember _him_. He was head boy during my first year, wasn’t he? I was terrified of him. That’s your brother? God, I can see why you don’t want to talk about him.”

“Yes, thankfully he graduated after my second year here. It would have been insufferable to have him breathing down my neck the entire time I was at school. He does enough damage in my life from afar as it is.” Sherlock grimaced.

“Wait a minute, he was in Slytherin, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, that’s true. Most of my family has traditionally been in Slytherin.”

“So you really broke the mold getting in to Ravenclaw?” John sounded impressed.

“Mummy was a little upset, but not surprised. Mycroft was shocked. It was worth getting in to Ravenclaw just to see his face when he heard the news.”

“So did you have to fight with the sorting hat to get into Ravenclaw?”

“Not too much. I just shared with it my concern at the supposed efficacy of relying on a magical hat’s opinion to place people into their proper school house, and it put me into Ravenclaw before I could really even finish.”

John chuckled softly beside him. “I can’t imagine why.”

They had reached the side entrance to the school, and John reached out to swing the door open, ushering Sherlock in before him.

“I’ve got to get back, but I’ll see you Monday?” John smiled.

“Monday,” Sherlock agreed, and the two waved as they parted ways to return to their dorms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey readers, sorry I just realized I had a continuity error in chap. 4. If Mycroft was headboy when John was a first year, then Sherlock would have been a second year as he is a grade ahead of John. Boo-boo now fixed.


	5. Five

The time dragged by on little snail trails as Sherlock waited for dinner to be over on Monday. He pushed his stewed tomatoes around his plate, then took another bite of mash before deciding that was enough of dinner.

“So it’s not _possible_ for a boggart to scare another boggart,” Amir patiently explained to Gavin seated next to him.

“Really? But I read in Tuddlemort’s _Guide of the Mystical Creature_ that . . .” Gavin countered.

Sherlock gathered up his things to move to the classroom and wait for John before he had to hear yet another inane thing bandied about by his fellow Ravenclaws. He could see John across the room still in the middle of his meal, buried in Gryffindors all talking, and laughing, and chewing at once. When John finally showed up in Professor Mobius’ classroom five minutes early, Sherlock had the basic formulas written out on the blackboard, and the textbook for John’s class open to the right section.

“Ah, John, good to see you. Let’s get started.” Sherlock pasted his ‘concerned’ smile across his face as John dropped his book bag, and settled into the chair across from him.

“Right, sure. Let’s see what I can stuff into my brain before it explodes.” John blew out a breath of air.

Sherlock generally hated explaining things to slower students, but John had a way of following his thoughts that made Sherlock want to continue guiding him like some kindly sherpa leading an expedition through a treacherous mountain pass. It was actually a joy to watch the light come on behind John’s eyes when a concept he hadn’t grasped finally clicked for him. Almost two hours had sped by when a gong sounded signaling students to return to their dorms for evening curfew.

“Sherlock, thanks, that was amazing. I really understand this so much better now. Guess I'm not a congenital idiot after all.” John winked at him.

“John, you have a fine mind. Professor Mobius must not have presented things to you in a way that made sense.” 

“Either that, or I dozed off in class,” John admitted chagrined. “Arithmancy does meet right after lunch, and I have trouble digesting and listening at the same time.”

Sherlock must have made a funny face because John burst out laughing.

“Oh, don’t look like that. We can’t all be Ravenclaws.”

“Indeed. Well, back to the dorms?” Sherlock asked, gathering up his books.

“Back to the dorms,” John agreed. “And Sherlock . . . thanks. Really, I mean it.”

“Any time, John,” Sherlock said, and he realized with a start that _he_ really meant it.

They walked back up the corridor together until they reached the splitting-off point. A witch bent over a book, waiting on a bench by a suit of armor, jumped up at the sight of them. Of course it was Maria Morstan. She scurried over to attach herself to John’s arm.

“Oh, Johnny, there you are. So, how did your tutoring go?” she asked with a big smile.

“It went smashing." John smiled back. “Sherlock is a fantastic teacher.”

“Well, that’s only half the equation, John is an excellent student . . .” Sherlock demurred, then trailed off as he realized no one was listening to him. Maria had pulled John into a deep, open-mouthed snog that had completely obliterated any possibility of conversation in the area. Sherlock tried to look any place but at the lip-locked couple next to him.

John finally pulled off looking very rumpled, and patted Maria as he tucked her safely under his arm. “Ah, well, thanks again, Sherlock. See you Wednesday then?”

“Wednesday,” Sherlock said with a small nod, and hurried on his way before he was made unwilling spectator to any more tonsil hockey that evening.

As he made his way back to the Ravenclaw dorm, answered the puerile question at the door, and got ready for bed, Sherlock let a jumble of information, confusing emotions, and impressions work their way through his mind. He brushed his teeth, changed into his pyjamas, nodded at his roommates, and got into his bed, pulling the curtains around his bed for privacy as he did each evening. He’d been lying in the dark ignoring the snores and noises around him for some time when his mind finally latched onto something, and things clicked into place.

This was about sex. The whole of it. He felt like a fool for not having recognized it earlier. Of course Sherlock _knew_ about sex. He’d known about it from a very early age onward. As soon as he was able to read, he had ferreted out all the available research on the subject, then filed it away as interesting but not terribly useful information. He’d watched his fellow students one by one succumbing to the gland games that seemed to grip them all with the onset of puberty. It began with the giggles, and awkward looks, the accidental on-purpose touches, and painful dances to catch someone’s attention, then moved to the inevitable bitter heartbreak when the beloved latched onto someone new. Ugh. It was a messy, horrid business, and he had prided himself on rising above it all . . . until now that is of course.

Pride goeth before a fall he thought grimly when he looked back on his recent behaviour with John. He was attracted to the Gryffindor. That’s what all this was – the sudden desire for friendship, the offering to be a tutor, the jealousy over seeing him with Maria – he fancied John. Sherlock burned all the way up to the tips of his ears. Even though no one could see him, he turned and buried his hot face in the bedclothes. He felt sick with his folly.

The more he thought about it though, the more he realized that it hadn’t ALL just been sexual attraction. He _had_ genuinely enjoyed John’s company as well – his humor, his bravery, his kindness, even his wit had brought a welcome new set of colours to the general humdrum palette of Sherlock’s daily life. Was it possible to combine a friendship with sex? No, that didn’t seem wise. Sex ruined everything. Plus there was no reason to assume that John returned his feelings. He had a girlfriend for goodness sake. Of course that didn’t mean he _couldn’t_ find males attractive too. However finding males _potentially_ appealing didn’t mean John would necessarily make the leap to finding an odd duck like Sherlock in _particular_ appealing. And of course, there was the girlfriend.

Enough. The whole business was making Sherlock’s head hurt just trying to sort it out. No wonder ordinary people stumbled blindly around falling into whatever relationship came their way willy-nilly. Trying to make sense of it was madness. Sherlock decided that he could simply isolate these gummy feelings of attraction. He could corral them, stuff them away, and leave the friendship he felt for John as something good and separate - something he could share with a mate who had a girlfriend. With this decision finally reached, Sherlock curled up, and with a sigh, slid into an uneasy sleep.

 

***

“You should come,” John said.

“Hmmm?” Sherlock looked up from the Arithmancy equations between them.

“I know you don’t like crowds, but if you’re free on Saturday, you should come out and watch the Quidditch game. We’re up against Slytherin. You’ve given the team such great tips for playing against them, I thought you should come watch us put them to good use.” John grinned at him.

“Of course, John. I wouldn’t miss it.” Sherlock smiled his ‘friendly chap’ smile back.

John looked at him a bit oddly, but declined to comment, and they returned to talking about polynomials.

After a month of bi-weekly tutoring, John had completely caught up with his Arithmancy class. They spent as much time talking about other things as Arithmancy in their tutoring sessions now. Sherlock really should suggest they drop back to weekly meetings, but he found himself looking forward to these times with John so much, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He’d actually taken to hanging out and watching the Gryffindors at some (okay all) of their Quidditch practices as well. He’d work on his classwork, books spread out all over the bench, and glance up occasionally to give tips and pointers on how the team could improve something they were doing. The whole team had really warmed to his continued help once his advice about how to best turn their brooms into a crosswind worked so well. Even John’s other friends, like the two brown-haired twins called Thomas and Dominic Middleston (Tom and Dom for short,) had gotten used to his presence at the Gryffindor table when John dragged him along for lunch or dinner. Maria was of course the last hold-out in warming to Sherlock’s presence, but then he and she were direct rivals for John’s time. Sherlock had no illusions about this. He always found reasons to excuse himself when Maria got too treacly, wrapping herself around John like some kind of a cephalopod. Even his best efforts couldn’t keep his ‘friendly mate’ mask in place for that.

Sherlock knew he’d really gone round the bend for John when he went so far as to sit in on a Slytherin Quidditch practice one afternoon for the sole purpose of spying on their weaknesses to pass on to the Gryffindor team. People had noticed him watching the Slytherins of course. He had a cousin on the Slytherin team, for God’s sake. Alastaire was going to _murder_ him if he found out what he’d been actually doing. A small smile curled his lips as he thought on it. Oh, he wasn’t missing this upcoming match between Gryffindor and Slytherin for the world.

 

*** 

Saturday dawned clear and bright, perfect for some high-stakes Quidditch. There weren’t many Ravenclaws at the game, and Sherlock found a spot on some sparsely populated benches, but the Gryffindors weren’t having it. The twins, Dom and Tom, refused to let him sit alone, dragging him over to join the sea of red and gold where the Gryffindors sat.

“Oh no, Sherlock, you’re our good luck charm. You’re staying with us!” Tom, or was it Dom? declared marching him over.

Sherlock appreciated the sentiment, somewhat, but he didn’t enjoy squashing in between a twin, and Maria on the Gryffindor bench. She smiled wanly at him, and tried to scoot over to make more room. As the game went on, she lost her wariness of him though, and soon Maria had her arms wound around Sherlock’s bicep, squeezing it mercilessly whenever a particularly daring move developed in the game. Sherlock hoped she wasn’t leaving marks.

The announcer’s voice boomed out overhead following the moves of the game.

“ . . . AND THAT’S ALASTAIRE HOLMES AS SEEKER FOR THE SLYTHERINS, AND TED LUPIN FOR THE GRYFFINDORS STILL AT SEA LOOKING FOR THE SNITCH. THEY’RE JUST FLYING AIMLESSLY ABOUT AT THE MOMENT . . . NO WAIT THERE’S THE BUGGER! (OH SORRY PROFESSOR) AND THEY’RE OFF!

THAT’S ANOTHER DARING SAVE BY THE GRIFFINDOR KEEPER, WELL DONE OWEN WALKER!

OUCH, THAT MUST HAVE HURT. JOHN WATSON JUST TOOK A HIT TO THE SHOULDER. DIDN’T THE SLYTHERIN BEATER SEE THAT JOHN LOOKS NOTHING LIKE A BLUDGER? AND THERE’S A PAUSE IN THE GAME WHILE A TEACHER TAKES A LOOK AT JOHN’S MALICIOUSLY INFLICTED WOUND . . . SORRY, ACCIDENTAL INJURY.”

“Oh no, Johnny!” Maria was practically twisting Sherlock’s arm off as John took a hit to the shoulder from a backhand swing from a Slytherin beater’s bat. It could have been an accident, but Sherlock was sure it was a calculated move to get John out of the game. They all craned their necks trying to get a better view of John down on the ground, but a circle had gathered around him, and those in the bleachers could see nothing. Finally, he was declared well enough to rejoin the game, and the crowd cheered as he flew back into position to resume play.

“THAT’S A PENALTY TO THE GRYFFINDORS, AND THE SLYTHERIN BEATER, NATHAN BLACK IS OUT, TO BE REPLACED BY XAVIER MALADROIT.”

Gryffindor was leading 40 to 30 against the Slytherins, when suddenly the tide of the game seemed to completely shift, and Slytherin made three goals in a row. The keeper, Owen, looked completely confused as to which way to move to stop the quaffle. Of course using a confundus charm to hex the keeper was completely illegal in the midst of a Quidditch game, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen if the referees weren’t paying close enough attention. Thankfully the Gryffindors called a time out, and sent in their back-up keeper, a boy called Ethan, to finish out the game before it got too out of hand, but Sherlock was furious that the Slytherins weren’t being properly called on their underhanded tactics.

He was pleased to note that Teddy had taken his advice to heart about the Slytherin seeker, his cousin Alastaire, flying too high when seeking the snitch. Teddy nipped in under him to grab the flying golden ball out of the air, and the game was over, 190 for Gryffindor, to 60 for Slytherin. The crowd exploded in cheers, and showers of sparks waved from wand tips. The twins led the group around him in chanting “Sherlock, Sherlock, he’s our man, if he can’t tell you, no one can!”

Sherlock hushed them as quickly as he could, and was relieved when Tom and Dom moved on to merely whooping, and conjuring red and gold streamers into the air. Maria shrieked at an ear-splitting volume, and jumped up and down beside him as the Gryffindor team took a victorious lap around the field.

Sherlock stood the noise as long as he could. With bedlam still erupting around him, he used the cover of the chaos to slip down from the stands, making his way quietly toward the castle using a lesser known route. His hopes that he would encounter no one on the way withered on the vine when a group of Slytherins appeared from behind some bushes to block his path.

“Well, look what we have here,” Philip Anderson, his least favorite Slytherin, drawled out, heading up the pack of brutes. “It’s Sherlock Bloody Holmes.” One of the no-necks cracked his knuckles as they fanned out before him.

Sherlock counted four of them total. “Good afternoon, Anderson. A fine day for a crushing defeat, don’t you think?” No sense in beating around the bush here.

“You talk bold for a traitor twice over,” Anderson sneered.

“A traitor twice over? How do you figure that?” Sherlock tilted his head to the side, genuinely confused.

“Why, first you left Slytherin to join those ickle eggheads in Ravenclaw, and now you’re a cheat and a spy giving the win to those idiot Griffindors? Sherlock, what would your brother say?” Anderson tsked at him.

Sherlock blanched a bit at the inherent threat to inform on him to Mycroft, but he pulled himself up taller to answer.

“First off, I was sorted into Ravenclaw my first year, I didn’t leave a house to get there, and secondly, observing another team in practice is not cheating. In point of fact, I saw two Slytherins watching the Gryffindors practice on no less than four separate occasions. If you want to talk about cheating, let’s discuss the confundus charm thrown on the Gryffindor keeper in the midst of an actual game. I’m sure the teachers would be interested in finding out who was the perpetrator of _that_ particular gem.”

Sherlock was not unaware that the largest two of the Slytherins had moved into a flanking position to either side of him during his little exposition. He wasn’t sure how well a martial arts class taken two summers ago was going to serve him today, but he dropped into a balanced stance prepared to take as many of them down with him as he could.

“You can’t prove anything, tosser,” Anderson spat out, and at a nod, the two bruisers closed in, grabbing for his arms. 

Sherlock went into a whirl of movement, earning him an elbow to a cheekbone and a punch to the ribs. He was certain he’d gotten in a number of his own hits in return when the sound of a group coming up the path had the Slytherin springing back in surprise. The Slytherins lost no time in disappearing back into the bushes, leaving Sherlock down on one knee, breathing hard as a group of merry Gryffindors crested the hill.

“All right, Sherlock?” Dom and Tom appeared first, quickly falling upon him to help him to his feet.

“What the hell?” Owen followed. He was still walking a little crooked after his confundus charm, but was none the less concerned over Sherlock’s state.

“It's fine. I’m fine.” Sherlock brushed himself off, and pushed his hair back out of his face.

“What happened?” Dom asked, crooking an eyebrow upward.

“I fell. Tripped over a hole. Very clumsy of me,” Sherlock said loud enough that anyone still in the bushes might overhear him. Facilitating some kind of civil war between two of the school houses today was not going to solve anything.

Tom didn’t look very convinced, but he went along with Sherlock’s story anyway. “Well, stick with us so you don’t fall into any more holes, eh?”

“Yeah, come on,” Dom added. “John needed to pop by the infirmary about his shoulder, but he said he’d kick our collective arses if we didn’t get you to the celebration with us.”

The rollicking party that had taken over the Gryffindor common room was in full swing by the time John was finally able to join it. Sherlock was happy to hand him a bottle of butter beer, and congratulate his win before Maria managed to wriggle her way in, and wind her person around John. Sherlock found a way to leave the room as soon as possible after that, heading back to his own much quieter dorm, the sound of the celebration still echoing in his ears.

 


	6. Six

John burst into their tutoring session waving a piece of paper around proudly before him. “Look at this Sherlock, just look at this.”

“Well, I would if you’d stop flapping it about.”

John dropped it to the table, and Sherlock lifted up what was obviously John’s latest Arithmancy exam. This one had an ‘A’ across the front of it, and a few motivational lines Professor Mobius had scrawled underneath it for good measure - ‘Excellent work, keep up the good progress.’

“Good work, John. I knew you could do it.” Sherlock fairly beamed at the Gryffindor.

“Thanks, but it’s mostly down to you. You do explain things better than Professor Mobius. I wouldn’t be passing this class without you.”

“Nonsense. You did the hard work.”

“Aww, you’re going to give me a swelled head. But listen, you’ve done all this tutoring for me, and I still owe you help with this mysterious potions project of yours. Is it nearly time for it?”

“Funny you should ask,” Sherlock said. “It is time to present my project to class. I’ll need you in the potions room tomorrow at the last session of the day. I’ll have Professor Leech write you an excuse to get you out of your regular class then.”

“Ah, okay. Any heads up about what we’ll be doing? Do I need to bring anything?” John scrunched up his forehead in the most adorable way.

“Nope. Just bring yourself, and all will be revealed,” Sherlock intoned mysteriously with a slight smile hovering over his lips.

“All right, you. I can’t wait to see what it is. Knowing you, we’ll be raising the dead, or charming ogres, or something equally mad.”

“Nothing so dangerous I assure you.” Sherlock grinned. “Now, why don’t we review vector charts today? I have it on good authority that Professor Mobius always features them highly on his final exams.”

“Lead the way, O brilliant one. I am at your mercy.” John smiled, and Sherlock flushed slightly as he angled the open textbook to where John could better see it.

***

John waited, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet when Sherlock met him in the hallway outside the potions classroom the next day.

“Ah, John, you’re early. Good I have a chance to give you a quick tour of my area before everyone else gets here.”

“Oooh, I get to see your mad scientist laboratory.”

“My mad . . . what?” Sherlock asked, quite confused.

“Never mind, Muggle reference.” John shrugged it off with a small smile.

Sherlock led John back to his private corner, and waved aside the protection spells to reveal the long-term projects he had humming along. "This is one thing I just started. I’m trying to develop a spray that will halve the growing time needed for certain plants." Sherlock indicated the three pots of nightshade lined up in a row in various stages of development.

“How’s that working?” John asked, peering closer.

“Mixed results,” Sherlock admitted. I’ve had a number of plants explode so far, but I keep trying.”

“What’s this one?” John pointed to the elaborate set-up holding a tube of simmering potion just so over a small eternal flame.

“I’ve spent several months on this one,” Sherlock confided pulling on some protective gloves. “It should be almost done. I have to take it down and shake it periodically. If I get it right, it will be top marks in class for certain.” Sherlock moved the flame to the side, and set to work unscrewing the clamps holding the vial in place.

“Yes, but what is it?” John asked pressing closer.

“Felix felicis – liquid luck,” Sherlock said, proudly holding the glass tube in his hand.

The liquid seemed to glow inside its container. Sherlock held it up against the light for John to better see as he reached for a flask that he could pour it into for a proper shaking. John leaned in a bit too close to watch, and his hip brushed against Sherlock's arse. Sherlock yelped, startled, and lost his grip on the vial. He watched in horror as it fell, flying through the air in almost slow motion. The tube tilted, splashing several boiling drops across Sherlock's arm between his glove and sleeve, and he brought his wrist to his mouth to cool without even thinking. The glassware hit the floor with an impressive crash shattering into bits, flinging the remaining potion simply everywhere.

“Oh GOD, Sherlock, I’m so sorry! Can we fix it?” John cried.

Sherlock shook his head. Generally he would have felt dismay at the loss of a potion that he had worked most of the school year on, but a strange tingling sensation had swept over him. He felt marvelous.

“No, touching the floor will have contaminated the potion. There’s no hope for it now. Don’t worry, it wasn’t your fault." Sherlock shrugged. "I’m the one with the butter fingers. We just have to make certain my other potion goes well today, won’t we?”

“Erm, sure. Here, let me help you with that at least.” John took his wand out and waved it over the mess. “ _Reparo_ ,” he commanded.

The glass tube mended itself together, sweeping back into Sherlock’s palm. The potion flew back inside it too, but as predicted was not so easily repaired. All the gold had fled leaving a dull, muddy-coloured brew in its wake. Sherlock moved to the sink to pour the ruined sludge down the drain.

"Sherlock, I am such an idiot." John sighed. 

“No worries, John. That was just a side project for me. This beauty is the star of today.” Sherlock returned to point toward the large beaker that bubbled away at the back of the counter.

“Okay, what is it, and where do I come in?” John asked, carefully standing a good two feet away from Sherlock at that point.

“Polyjuice potion . . . and I need you to be my template.”

“You just want me to be the object of the polyjuice?” John asked.

“That’s right, I need to become you to pass this class.”

John laughed. “You don’t actually need me to help you make a potion, do you? You just want me to contribute a hair for some polyjuice?”

“That, or a finger nail, or some dandruff, and it’s not a small request. It requires a large amount of trust and confidence to allow someone to copy you. I couldn’t think of anyone else I could ask this of.”

John opened his mouth to answer, but other students filing in around them distracted him. Professor Leech swept in last with a dramatic swirl of his robe pulling the door closed behind him.

“Take your places, please, everyone. Today is the big day. I want to see what you busy little beavers have all been up to. Surprise me. Addison, you’re up first.”

Sherlock pulled John into a seat next to him, and they watched as one by one, the advanced potions students came forward to demonstrate their special projects.

A couple of the wizards went for the flashy. One Hufflepuff boy called Robert demonstrated a potion that turned anything it touched into an iridescent light source. Everyone ooh’ed and clapped appreciatively at the glowing items he made from dipping them into the brew. “I need that for my next party.” Sherlock heard the witch beside him tell her neighbor.

His dorm-mate Gavin took a turn after. He proudly presented his Hover potion, and after downing it in one swallow, immediately began bouncing around the room like a hyperactive beach ball. Professor Leech stepped in quickly, waving his wand to freeze him a few inches above the floor. The teacher gave Gavin a countermeasure potion, and all breathed a sigh of relief when the boy returned to normal human movement. Gavin crept to his seat sheepishly.

Molly got up next, announcing that she’d brewed an Alluring Beautification potion for her project. Molly’s appearance did shift quite a bit after she drank it. Her eyes seemed to grow wider and deeper, while her hair lightened, and lengthened to curl fetchingly around a bosom that had nearly doubled in size. Suddenly one of the witches, and every male in the room, with the exception of John, Sherlock, and Professor Leech, took to their feet. As one, the group advancing toward the witch with disturbingly hungry looks in their eyes. The teacher very quickly hurried Molly to his office on the side, and pushed her in to wait for the potion to wear off. She looked extremely disappointed as he shut the door in her face, and locked it tight.

It was lucky that the next student, a Hufflepuff girl called Sally had a calming potion. Professor Leech made everyone who was still twitching toward his office door have a small dose, and the tone of the classroom settled appreciably.

Finally, it was Sherlock’s turn. He motioned John to follow as he retrieved the polyjuice, and stepped to the front of the classroom. “Good afternoon all. I have a standard polyjuice potion, and with the help of my assistant, John Watson, I will now endeavor to copy his form. John, if you please?”

John reached up, and wincing slightly, pulled out one of his hairs. He handed it to Sherlock with a nervous smile, watching as he took it, and carefully dropped it into the beaker. The murky mixture began to change instantly, bubbling up, and turning into a much lighter amber color.

“Cheers!” Sherlock said, more bravely than he felt, and tipped the brew to his lips. Essence of John was delicious. It was like drinking a thick coffee made with honey and mint, and laced through with slight undertones of borage.

Instantly, the change rippled over him, and he bent forward with the shock of it. Sherlock would have dropped the beaker, only someone caught it, and then caught and held him. He writhed against the sensation of bones and muscles shifting into new shapes startled at the anguish. He would have screamed, but someone was holding him close and rocking him. The touch soothed the pain, making things bearable. When Sherlock came to himself, he was lying on the floor, curled up in John’s lap.

John held his head between his palms, peering down at him with the most worried expression. “Sherlock, are you all right?” His eyes searched over Sherlock’s face, and he shuddered a bit at what he saw. “Cor, that’s . . . that is just unnerving.”

“John. Erm, yes. I’m fine now.” Sherlock managed to squeak out.

Professor Leech appeared to lean over them, holding out a small beaker. “Here, son, drink this.”

“What is it?” Sherlock croaked, reaching out with an arm that felt clumsy and wrong to take it.

“A restorative. It helps ease the effects of transformation,” Professor Leech said reassuringly.

Sherlock nodded, and downed the swallow of potion. He was pleased to feel the residual headache, and rubbery feeling in his limbs receding. Sherlock was both embarrassed and utterly transfixed to find himself still half entwined with John on the floor. John didn’t seem in the least concerned that he was basically cuddling Sherlock in front of a room full of year seven Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs.

“Damn, I am NEVER taking that potion.” Sherlock heard someone mutter behind them.

“Are you okay to stand?” John asked him, brow wrinkled. At Sherlock’s nod, John helped him to his feet. Sherlock expected to be looking down at John, and was surprised to find himself at direct eye level with him. The potion must have worked. From the looks of the jaws dropping, and eyes swiveling back and forth between John and himself, it had worked well.

“Very good, Mr. Holmes,” Professor Leech confirmed. “Perhaps you’d like a look at your handiwork?”

At Sherlock’s nod, the teacher raised his wand and summoned a large mirror in a stand that arrived to park itself beside them. Sherlock turned to see two John Watsons standing side by side. The one in the scarlet and gold tie of Gryffindor looked a bit rueful, the other, wearing slightly too-long clothes, and the blue and bronze tie of Ravenclaw, looked stunned. That John’s face creased into a most un-Johnlike grin.

“Brilliant!” Sherlock exclaimed with John’s lovely mouth.

After the class clapped appreciatively, they returned to their seats to watch the remaining students present their potions. Sherlock found himself much too entranced with being in a replica of John’s body to pay them much mind though. He hadn’t realized how fascinating it would be to wear John’s shape. He kept clenching and unclenching muscles, moving his fingers and swiveling his neck to see if John’s body moved differently from his own. Sadly, it felt the same as it always did except for the fact that everything was shorter. John kept sneaking glances at him.

“Does my hair really stick up like that in the back all the time?” John whispered, and Sherlock had to bite his lip not to snicker out loud in class. It was a relief when the lesson finally finished, and Sherlock could stop pretending to listen to other people.

“So, um, how long until the effects of the polyjuice potion wear off?” John asked as the other students filed out around them.

“It can last for up to twelve hours,” Sherlock said, “but since this was my first time making it, it may not be as strong a dose. Let’s say eight hours to be conservative."

“Wow, that long.” John blew out a breath.

“John, if you’d rather I just isolated myself until I revert back . . .”

“Are you kidding? Not on your life! Dom and Tom have played so many practical jokes on me, I can’t WAIT to get them back. Oh, no, you’re coming with me to the Gryffindor dorms. Let me think of the best thing to do . . .”

John and Sherlock looked up to see Professor Leech releasing Molly from his office once the rest of the class had safely exited.

“Hmm, so how do you two feel?” The teacher asked the boys as he escorted a blonde, buxom Molly back into the room.

“Erm, fine?” Sherlock ventured. “A little short perhaps.”

“Fine,” John said. “Molly, you look lovely by the way.”

“Oh, thanks, John.” Molly smiled, and some gorgeous dimples appeared on her rosy round cheeks. She let her eyes roam over to Sherlock hopefully, but her smile dropped when she saw he wasn’t really paying her any attention at all.

John nudged him in the ribs, and he startled. “Oh yes, Molly, your appearance is quite enchanting today.” Sherlock added in quickly.

Professor Leech looked like he might laugh, but settled for a firm mouth instead. “I think I’d better take Miss Hooper up to the infirmary, and have Madame Comfrey make sure she’s all right to . . . mingle.” He escorted Molly to the door, and paused to turn back to them. “Oh, and Sherlock, you’ll probably change back before midnight. It shouldn’t hurt as much as the original transformation, but if anything goes wrong, don’t hesitate to let Madame Comfrey know.”

“I will professor, thank you.” Sherlock assured him.

The teacher turned to herd Molly out the door ahead of him. “Not that way, if you please, Miss Hooper. I think we’ll take the teachers’ corridor . . . “

 

***

They lingered for several more minutes in the potions room getting ready. John coached Sherlock in speaking with a slightly higher voice until he was reasonably certain that Sherlock could pass for him under casual observation. John had him take off his Ravenclaw tie, stuff it into his pocket, and give him a head start before leaving the potions room. With a bit of luck, they might keep the fact that John had a doppleganger a secret long enough to enact John's great scheme.

"Meet you outside the Gryffindor common room door in half an hour." John winked before scuttling out the door. 

After waiting the right amount of time, Sherlock set off as well, trying to put the small bounce in his step that John always had. It was simply amazing the number of people who greeting him in the halls. Sherlock had no idea John was so popular. He did his best to return the nods and smiles with a friendly air, deciding half-way across the castle that he was glad no one ever said hello to him when he wore his own face. This was exhausting. Sherlock decided to take a less-traveled hallway for the last leg of the journey. He was busily thinking about whether he might try making the felix felicis potion again, and if he might add a bit more the fluxweed this time when he rounded a corner and bumped right into Maria Morstan. She took one look at him, and flung herself around him.

“THERE you are, you naughty boy! I’ve been looking for you all afternoon!” she crowed.

Sherlock reacted to the assault automatically. “Ugh! Great Merlin, woman, get off me,” he cried, scraping her arms away.

“What is it . . . what’s wrong?” Maria’s pretty face crumpled as he pushed her aside.

“What’s wrong? Are you mental? Can’t a person walk down the hallway without being mauled?”

“Mauled? John, are you mad at me for something?”

Ice water crested over Sherlock as some tumblers finally clicked into place. John. He still looked like John. Of course, how could he have forgotten he still wore his friend’s form? “No, I’m not mad, exactly . . . erm, I just don’t like being grabbed by pushy people. . .” he tried explaining.

Maria’s face hardened. “Oh, I’m being pushy am I?”

Sherlock tried to back out of the mess he seemed to have stepped in as fast as he could. “Here now, you don’t need to twist everything I say . . .”

“How about I don’t talk to you at all if you’re going to be like that?” Maria cried, and spun on her heel to dash back the way she had come.

Sherlock stood for a moment rooted to the spot replaying the interaction, and tried to think of a way that could have gone better. Nope, he couldn’t come up with a single scenario that didn’t have Maria running off in a huff. He might look like John, but he certainly was _not_ John. He figured her boyfriend could explain the whole mix-up to her later, and they’d all have a good laugh. Sherlock continued on his way, relieved that he didn’t meet anyone else of significance to John before he met the man himself waiting outside the Gryffindor rooms.

“Well, _hello_ there, John. Fancy meeting you here!” John hailed him with a jovial smile as Sherlock drew near.

“John, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Can it wait? I want to get things in place as soon as possible.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose it can.” Sherlock shrugged in a very Sherlocky gesture.

“Don’t do that,” John said. “I don’t do that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in reply.

“I don’t do that either, do I?” John didn’t wait for an answer before he turned to the large portrait of a fat lady hanging before them. “Spleenwart,” he announced.

“Picked up a friend, dearie?” she asked John as her portrait swung away from the wall, revealing the doorway to the Gryffindor common room behind.

“Yes, and don’t tell anyone, it’s a surprise.” He warned the picture as they stepped through the round entrance.

“Here hold a book over your face,” John said, thrusting a Muggle Studies textbook at Sherlock before dragging him through the common room. They didn’t draw much attention from the few Gryffindors stretched out over the squashy armchairs, and were soon safely up the stairs to John’s dorm room.

Sherlock had been in the Gryffindor common room before, but the dorms were new territory. He was somewhat disappointed to see that their bedrooms looked much like the ones in the Ravenclaw tower. Sherlock was hoping for something more exotic, but the only real difference was that the four beds were covered in spreads that were maroon instead of blue. Luckily, for their pranking purposes, the bedroom was empty.

“Why are you even taking Muggle Studies?” Sherlock asked looking at the cover of the book John had shoved over his face. “You were raised in a Muggle household!”

“I thought it would be fascinating to see Muggles from a wizarding perspective.” John answered with a huff.

Sherlock looked at him with a raised eyebrow, and said nothing.

“Oh, all right, I thought it would be an easy A.” John chuckled. “God, I can’t get over seeing myself glaring at me. This is just too weird.” John shook his head “All right, get on my bed, and look like you’re taking a kip until I send Tom or Dom up here. Try to talk to as few other people as possible. You remember your lines?”

“John, they aren’t that complicated.”

“Good. Thanks, mate,” John said, clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. He steered Sherlock toward his bed, and left him to get settled, quickly scooting back downstairs.

Sherlock kicked off his too-large shoes, and stretched out over John’s bed, holding John’s book, wearing John’s shape, and tried to relax. It was a little weird, truth be told. He took John’s pillow out from under the blankets, and plumped it under his head. This might have been a mistake because it smelled deliciously of John. Sherlock rolled over to mash his face into the fabric, and inhaled great lungfuls of the scent. He was chagrined to feel a resulting heat pooling below his waist. 

Sherlock flipped back over with a small groan. It wasn’t his body. It wasn’t right to touch it like he wanted to, but that didn’t stop his hand from finding its way under his robe to stroke over himself anyway. Sherlock made a deal then. He wouldn’t look, he’d only touch. In some way, he’d still be preserving John’s privacy. When fingers made their way under the cotton of his pants and rubbed against warm flesh, Sherlock nearly arched off the bed. John felt different from himself, and the novelty was odd, but the parts were all basically the same, and Sherlock certainly knew what to do with them. It was all so strangely perverse though, touching John's body in his bed without John around. It merely added fuel to the naughty pleasure of it all. He grinned later to find a box of tissues on the bedside table in convenient reaching distance. It told him a lot about John’s sex life right there.

Thankfully, by the time one of John’s dorm-mates clattered in and out of the room to grab something, Sherlock lay peacefully spread over the bed, pretending to sleep with the book across his chest.

It was some minutes more before he heard a pair of more deliberate treads on the stairs, and knew the twins were coming up. The set up was thus, John would be down in the common room at a table doing homework. When the twins came in, he’d tell them his shoulder was really hurting from the last Quidditch game, and could they please nip up to his bedroom to grab some books he needed from his bedside table. When they arrived at John’s bedside, Sherlock would be there holding the books, and in as close an imitation to John’s voice as he could manage, claim to have apparated in ahead of them.

It was ridiculous of course, even a first year should know that apparation was banned at Hogwarts, but John promised that the resulting prank would pay the twins back for many a joke played on him over the years. Sherlock wasn’t sure just how gullible a pair of tricksters would actually be, but for John, he’d do nearly anything.

Oddly enough, it worked brilliantly. Dom and Tom stomped into the room, and stood gobsmacked when they saw Sherlock as John sitting on the bed. “You were too slow.” Sherlock said, gathering the stack of books into his arms.

“What, what, . . . you were just downstairs.” Tom pointed behind him. 

Dom just opened and closed his mouth. “How . . .”

“Oi, haven’t you two pillocks ever seen anyone apparate before?” Sherlock grinned at them.

“But no one can apparate on the school grounds,” Dom spluttered.

“It’s impossible,” Tom agreed. “Believe me, we’ve tried.”

“You don’t know the secret.” Sherlock-John said lowering his voice for dramatic appeal.

“What’s that?” Tom asked.

Sherlock merely smiled mysteriously at the two boys, and shook his head. 

“Come on Johnny-boy, you wouldn’t hold out on your best mates would you?” Dom cajoled.

“Oh, all right, but you have to promise you won’t tell anyone.”

After the twins had crossed their hearts and promised closed lips, Sherlock-John leaned in to tell them the big reveal. “I found a secret spot in the common room that you can apparate from if you stand there just so on one foot and flap your arms. It’s right in front of the fireplace. You have to look to find it.”

The twins lost no time in thundering down the stairs to test out their newly-won information. Sherlock waited until they had a few minutes to get into place, then crept down the stairs to watch. He wondered how this sort of thing might go over in the Ravenclaw dorm, and decided it probably wouldn’t. He had to admit with a surge of pride that John’s plan had worked, and it _was_ amusing to watch the twins hopping around, flapping their arms like madmen across the Gryffindor common room. The students in the armchairs stared at them with some concern. Of course the jig was up once John spilled out from behind the curtains where he’d been hiding laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Sherlock added his chuckle in, and the twins stopped in their tracks to gawk back and forth between the two of them.

“All right Johnny, what dark magic is this?” Tom demanded, putting his hands on his hips.

“It’s polyjuice potion,” Sherlock said, letting his voice drop to its normal register to answer them as John hadn’t regained the power of speech just yet.

“Sherlock?” Dom asked, peering at him with a disbelieving look.

“Yup,” Sherlock drawled out, popping the last consonant with some relish.

“Well, stuff me in bloomers, and call me Merlin’s aunt,” Tom said. “We’ve been punked by the great Sherlock Holmes.”

Rather than being angry, Dom and Tom were delighted at the joke. Sherlock had to smile and shake his head as John and the twins discussed the finer points of the prank, reliving the sight of the twins jumping about like demented birds.

Teddy Lupin came into the common room holding a large package that he dropped onto the study table, and quickly looked the situation over. “John, you’ve doubled yourself, good man. Polyjuice potion?”

“That’s right,” John called over with a smile.

“Cool, huh?” Sherlock copied John’s smile, and tone of voice as much as possible. The twins, seeing an opportunity for a new joke, gathered around.

Teddy short-circuited the _who’s who_ game by mock punching each John in the face. When Sherlock cringed mightily, Teddy jerked a thumb at him. “So, who’s this tosser?”

“It’s Sherlock,” John admitted. “He needed help with an Advanced Potions project.”

Teddy peered more closely at Sherlock, then stuck out his palm to shake. “Good job, mate.”

“Thanks, Teddy,” Sherlock said, taking his hand.

“All right you lot, it’s my birthday, and I’ve got a feast to share so we’re skiving off from dinner, and having a picnic somewhere more classy.”

“You’re birthday’s next week, mate,” Owen said coming up behind them.

“True, but that’s during Easter break, and I got a care package from my Godfather today. Party time!”

“OOOooh, Brilliant!” Tom said. “Your Godfather always sends the best stuff.”

Teddy opened the box and let them peer in at the collection of wrapped sausages, cheeses, sweets, and the bottle of fire whiskey nestled in the shredded paper within.

"Happy sixteenth, Old Man!" Dom slapped Teddy on the back appreciatively.

“Maybe I should go, and see if I can find Maria - let her know,” John said.

“Erm, mate, could we keep this just between the blokes, do you think? Men's night out?” Teddy asked.

“Oh, yeah, right. Of course,” John said. “Let me leave her a note.”

“Shame we don’t have a cake,” Teddy mused as John left to write his excuses.

“I think I could help with that,” Sherlock said, pulling the small silver spoon out of his pocket to summon the house elves once more. When a small grey creature popped out of a secret door in the book case, Sherlock bowed deeply to him.

“Yes, someone called?” The elf asked, looking around.

“I did, Sherlock Holmes. Forgive my interruption of your work. It’s a companion’s birthday celebration today, and he is without a cake. We wondered if you might be able to help us out?”

“Certainly, sir.” The elf disappeared into the secret passage only to return a few minutes later carrying a basket laden with not only a round chocolate cake, but several bottles of butter beer, and a nice selection of fruit as well.

The boys all called their thanks, and the elf nodded before popping back into the small door for good.

“Dragon’s blood, I think we should keep this one around more often. He’s dead useful!” Dom grinned nodding his head at Sherlock.

Sherlock felt the back of his neck redden when the others all agreed.

As soon as John returned, the six of them left the common room carrying their spoils with them as Teddy led the way. He guided them through several hallways to a quieter top floor corridor where he suddenly stopped. Everyone bunched up around the plain expanse of stone wall before them, and waited expectantly.

“All right, mate. Where to next?” Owen asked.

“This is it.” Teddy grinned.

“This is what?” John asked peering closer at the wall.

“The Come and Go room.” Sherlock smiled at them.

“You know about it too?” Teddy said, surprised.

“Of course,” Sherlock said, watching as Teddy’s appraisal of him rose a few notches.

“I’ve heard it called the Room of Requirement too. So, you know what to do to get inside?” Teddy pressed him.

“Indeed,” Sherlock said. "You simply need to walk up and down the corridor three times concentrating on what room you need _right now._ You should probably have just one person do it so the room doesn’t get confused.”

“Okay," John said. “Teddy, you go. It’s your birthday party.”

“All right, all right, give me some room, lads. Stand back.” Teddy cracked his knuckles.

The other boys stepped back and watched as Teddy screwed up his face, and paced solemnly back and forth along the corridor. They all cheered when a heavy red door suddenly appeared in the wall, and swung wide to let them in.

“Cor, mate, what is this, a tiki bar?” Owen asked as they pushed their way through the potted palms to gain entry to the room.

“What’s a tiki bar?” Teddy, the twins, and Sherlock all said more or less at once.

Owen and John exchanged a look. Sometimes it was hard being Muggle-born at Hogwarts. The room was a true wonder though, hung round with fairy lights, and heaps of tropical greenery. A fountain in the corner shaped like a mermaid and merman sprayed water out in a comforting tinkle as colored lights played over it. The ceiling mimicked a lovely summer day with a few fluffy clouds moving over a deep blue sky.

“Wicked!” Dom cried.

“Brilliant, mate,” Tom agreed.

“I was thinking of a picnic I had last summer with some friends,” Teddy admitted. “This isn’t too far off.”

The floor had even transformed to feel like spongy grass with a wide comfy purple cloth spread across the center inviting them to sit down and enjoy themselves which they promptly did. They made short work of passing out the food, and drinks, talking, and laughing, and chewing all at the same time.

“Oi, John I should have known you couldn’t apparate from the common room earlier,” Tom called over. “You haven’t passed your apparating classes yet.”

“Like THAT was the important point.” Dom laughed, cuffing his brother good-naturedly at the back of his head.

“I’m just glad I got a chance to pay you two back for the grindylow business,” John said throwing an apple at Tom’s head.

Tom caught it neatly in mid-air, and Owen whistled. “Maybe YOU should play spare keeper for the Quidditch team, Tom!”

“Not me.” Tom said. “I’ve got too much trouble to get into to waste time mucking about with Quidditch.” He grinned, and bit into the apple.

“Oi, I’m offended at that remark. Quidditch is not a waste of time!” Teddy, captain of the team, protested puffing his chest up.

“You’re not offended, you’re offensive, mate.” John grinned at him. “Here, pass us another butter beer.”

Sherlock found he was actually enjoying the company, the friendly banter, and the food much more than he thought he would, and he stuffed his face, eating a good bit more than he normally would at dinner. They passed around gooey slices of chocolate cake that they ate with their fingers, and then Teddy cracked open the fire whiskey, and they passed that around too. Everyone cried out over the heat of the drink, but kept on passing it around the circle just the same. Things grew much more relaxed as the boys lounged back on the picnic cloth, and the conversation turned to more interesting topics as tongues loosened.

“So, think of all the things you could do if you could really double yourself,” Teddy mused.

“You could take classes every other day while the other one had a lie in,” John said.

“Tried it already,” Tom said.

“Yeah, you still need to know that material come exam time,” Dom agreed, lobbing a grape into his mouth.

“Think about the tossing off you could do if you were doubled,” Owen said with wide eyes. “You could actually suck your own knob.”

“OWEN,” Teddy cried with a groan. “You can get any bloke to suck your knob for you. It’s called being _gay_ , you great plonker.”

“Although I don’t know about getting _any_ bloke to suck you off, Owen, you being such an ugly brute and all.” Dom grinned, and ducked when Owen threw a handful of boiled sweets at him.

They laughed, clutching their bellies at that, but Sherlock noticed that when John stopped giggling, a thoughtful expression stole over his face. He could almost see the gears grinding in John’s brain when his eyes flickered over to Sherlock, and then dropped hastily to the bottle of butter beer in his hand. Sherlock couldn’t help it. A small glimmer of hope flared up in his chest.

It was late when they finally gathered up their things to return to their beds. The room had obligingly dimmed its magical sky to a pleasing twilight. Before they left, everyone was treated to the sight of Sherlock transforming back to his true shape. He was thankful that as Professor Leech had predicted, the change wasn’t anywhere near as painful as before.

Still, the boys looked impressed. “Wow, not sure I’m in a hurry to try that potion out,” Owen remarked as Sherlock picked himself off the ground, and ran his hands through his curls, a dark-haired Ravenclaw once more.

“I've heard it gets easier once you’ve done it a few times,” Teddy said with a shrug.

They walked back as quietly as they could through the corridors, keeping an eye out for Mrs. Norris, or any prefects or teachers on patrol.

“No worries.” John hiccuped. “I’m a perrrfeck. I’ll jus’ tell ‘em you lot are wi’ me.”

“Yes, John, that will go over perfectly, I’m sure.” Dom grinned at him. The twins were helping lead the others along, obviously more used to knocking back liquor than the rest of the group. Even Sherlock was feeling rather loopy, and when John tucked his arm through Sherlock’s for support, he happily leaned in, the two of them bringing up the rear with a merry, winding gait.

“John, thanks for your help. I really appreciated being you today. I mean your help with the polyjuice was . . .” Sherlock was having trouble picking out the words he wanted.

“Yeh, it’s all right, Sh’lock I know wha’ you mean.” John smiled. "Was glad to do it. Jus’ sorry I made you drop your felix earlier. It looked lovely.”

Sherlock stumbled a bit, and John caught him. “Whoa steady on there, mate. Gotta watch those stork legs you got back. You okay?”

Sherlock had completely forgotten about the loss of the felix felicis potion earlier in the day. He had accidentally ingested some of the mixture though. Was it possible the brew had worked after all? It had been a most perfect day in his opinion.

Sherlock grinned down at John. “I’m fine, just fine.”

“Good to hear it.” John chuckled. “Now come on, we need to get our arses into bed before someone gives us another detention.”

Sherlock of course had to part ways with the rest of the group to head back to the Ravenclaw tower. The boys all slapped him on the back, and wished him a fond farewell. It was John’s brief hug though that had him grinning all the way back to his dorm room. Upon reflection as his head hit the pillow, Sherlock decided that yes, it had been a most excellent, perfect day after all. The best.


	7. Seven

John stalked into the classroom for their tutoring session like a storm cloud had been raining over his head the entire way. He banged his books onto the table, and yanked a chair out forcefully to plop himself down.

“You’re upset about something,” Sherlock said looking up, blinking in surprise at John’s dramatic entrance. This strop was completely out of the usual parameters of John behaviour. He winced, considering. “It’s your girlfriend, isn’t it?” 

“Right as always, Sherlock. You are very observant. However, Maria is no longer my girlfriend. She is now my ex-girlfriend as we broke up yesterday.”

“Ah.” Sherlock paused. “There’s something I should tell you, something I probably should have told you about earlier.”

“What, about you meeting Maria under the influence of polyjuice, and her thinking you were me?”

“Erm . . .yes? You know about that?” Surprise rippled over Sherlock.

“Yeh, I figured it out pretty quickly from what Maria said,” John huffed.

“Sooo, It didn’t clear things up when you told her it wasn’t you?”

“Clear things up? Well, yeh . . . no . . . Sherlock it isn’t your fault that we broke up.”

“It isn’t?” Sherlock asked. He felt horribly guilty about the whole thing.

“No, it isn’t. Maria and I have been drifting apart for awhile. Her going on about meeting you in the hall, that was just an ice cube on top of the iceburg. She said some ugly things, and I just decided that was it . . . look I really don’t want to talk about this any more. It’s over, it’s done. Let’s just work on the Arithmancy, yeah? I’d like to deal with something that makes sense right about now.”

“Of course, John,” Sherlock said with a profound relief.

 

***

 

The next time Sherlock ran into John, he was unfortunately up against a corridor wall with a hostile Slytherin breathing down his neck. It wasn’t one of his proudest moments.

“What’s this about you leaking secrets to the Gryffindors? You TRAITOR. You lost us that match, didn’t you? Have you no pride in your heritage _whatsoever_?”

The angry Slytherin in question had Sherlock in a chokehold, grinding his face against the stone wall while his two thick-necked cronies loomed nearby for moral support. Such a pity this was all about something as silly as a ball game. Still, perceived dishonor could come from any front. Slytherins were such a fragile, touchy lot when it came right down to it. Ego was one of their largest weaknesses. Sherlock was certain he could have taken his attacker if he hadn’t come at him from behind. His cousin Alastaire had always been a dirty fighter. But that was fine. Sherlock could fight dirty too.

“What heritage? Oh you mean grown men who should have known better who followed LORD VOLDEMORT into the very gates of hell itself? Pardon me for not wanting to follow in their august footsteps.”

He felt a shudder run through his cousin at that. He’d lost his father in the war as well.

“This isn’t about that . . . business, _Sherlock._ You deliberately spied on our team practicing, and fed it all to those Gryffindor Neanderthals.”

“There is nothing untoward about observing a rival team’s practices, _Alastaire_. The information is free for all. It’s what you do with it that makes for good playing. The Gryffindors beat you fair and square, unlike the cretins you fly with. Why was your team so sure that you couldn’t win on your own merit that you stooped to cheating?”

“Rubbish! OUR team is made up of proper Wizards who represent the tradition of our families going back for centuries. Why you thought it wasn’t good enough for the likes of the special Sherlock Holmes is beyond . . .”

Sherlock had had enough. “Oh get off me, Alastaire. A teacher or prefect is about to come by, and slap your poncy arse into detention in about three minutes.”

Alastaire seemed to consider the sense of Sherlock’s words, and deciding that someone probably was due to patrol by at any moment, released him with a snarl.

“Thank you so much cousin, dear, and let me just say what a pleasure it is to see you again.” Sherlock pushed upright, running a hand over his sore neck as he considered his relative. Alastaire was nearly as tall as he was, possessing the same Holmesian cheekbones, and flashing pale eyes, but with a head of wavy auburn hair, and not the dark locks that he sported.

Alastaire’s elegant face peeled back into a classic sneer as he raked his eyes over Sherlock. “I wish I could say the same of you, turncoat. It’s bad enough that you had to throw your lot in with those spineless Ravenclaws, but to start slumming around with Gryffindors? Surely that is beyond the pale even for you!”

“There is nothing wrong with anyone simply for the house they were sorted into, cousin.” Sherlock spoke low and clear.

“I’m telling Mycroft.”

“Telling him _what_ , exactly.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“Telling him you’re sniffing at the trousers of some lowlife Gryffindor scholarship case.”

Sherlock stepped forward as his own lips peeled back from his gritted teeth. Oh this posturing it was all so tedious, but a burning heat had flashed over his vision, and he was good and truly furious now.

“You do that, and I’ll be happy to tell Grand-Mère at her birthday this summer all about you and the Muggle Studies professor . . . a Ms. Jennifer Pipkin, yes?” Sherlock hissed. “Really Alastaire it’s both poor taste, and against school rules to be fucking the staff. Isn’t Jennifer Muggle-born herself? Whatever _will_ the family say?”

His cousin had turned an even paler shade than he already was. “You can’t prove anything,” he said raising his chin.

“Oh, Alastaire, you just proved it. I’m sure Grand-Mère will be equally impressed with your reactions to such allegations.”

Alastaire opened his mouth to spew who-knew-what further vitriol when Sherlock looked past him to see none other than John standing just behind his shoulder. Alastaire’s bruiser friends had scarpered off into the crowd leaving just the two of them facing off in the corner. Alastaire turned his head to track the newcomer, and John, with no self-preservation whatsoever stepped right between them.

“All right, Sherlock?” he asked keeping a wary eye on Alastaire who took a gratifying step backwards.

“All right, John,” Sherlock replied. “John, have you met my cousin Alastaire?”

“Not formally no, but we’ve certainly met on the Quidditch field before.” John crossed his arms just under the prefect badge pinned on his chest in a clear reminder of his authority. “Good evening, Alastaire.” He nodded politely. “Is there a problem here?”

“No problem. I was just leaving. Excuse me.” Alastaire turned, and with a swirl of his robe disappeared down the hallway. They watched him go.

“He was charming,” John joked grimly, reaching out to touch a scrape on Sherlock’s cheek. “Should I write him up?” he added quietly.

“No,” Sherlock bent down to pick up the books he’d dropped when Alastiare had jumped him. He'd been on his way home from the library with his head in the clouds. _Stupid._ “He wanted his payback for Slytherin’s Quidditch loss. He needed to blame my information sharing so he didn’t have to face up to his own inferior playing skills. Now that he’s confronted me, his pride will be soothed, and he’ll let it be. If I do anything else to stir things up, it starts all over.”

John hunched down to help gather the scattered books. “We shouldn’t have put you in a position like that, encouraging you to spy on the Slytherin team. It seemed like great fun at the time, but it really wasn’t fair to use you that way.”

“It was my own idea,” Sherlock said.

“Still,” John said, handing him the books he had retrieved. “It puts you in an awkward place, and I don’t want you doing that again.”

“Oh, John. Don’t fret. It’s not like Alastaire needs an actual reason to hate me. We’ve been playing this game for years.”

John snorted. “I know, family, right? You only hurt the ones you have to share Christmas dinner with.”

The both stood at the same time, and paused, eyeing each other awkwardly.

“Listen, I was actually looking for you,” John said. “I came to tell you I can’t make our tutoring session tomorrow. Teddy wants to get in another Quidditch practice before Easter break.”

“Ah, certainly, of course.” Sherlock nodded. “It’s not as if you actually NEED two sessions every week any more. You’re all caught up with your Arithmancy class this point. You’ve done an excellent job.”

“Thanks.” John reached back to run a hand through his hair. “It will be nice to have a break for a few days though, eh? Have some lie-ins, see some new scenery, eat some home-cooked meals. Got anything special planned for the holiday?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “No, not really. I can get some quality time in at the library with most of the other students gone though.”

“You’re not planning on staying at school are you?” John looked horrified.

“Why not? I’ve done so every other year. In fact a number of seven years stay each year to get in more studying for their NEWTS.”

“Oh, you can’t spend every break at school,” John complained.

“John, my family and I, we aren’t close.” Sherlock looked down at the floor. “You saw how my cousin Alastaire was.”

“Come home with me,” John said without thinking.

“It’s a little late to spring this on your family isn’t it?” Sherlock asked catching him in a piercing look.

“No, it’s fine.” John smiled. “My mum is always telling me to bring friends home. I’ll send her an owl tonight. She’ll be thrilled.” He paused a moment, obviously thinking, perhaps reconsidering. “It’s nothing fancy though mind you. Just a terraced house, my mum, and my sister, Harry, home from uni.”

“John, if it’s your home, I’d be honored.” 

“Good it’s settled then,” John said. “The school will want you to tell your family too.”

Sherlock sighed. “I can jump through the required hoops.” Inside, it felt like a multitude of fireworks had just exploded somewhere inside his chest. Outwardly, he let a small smile tug up the corner of his mouth.

“Are you taking most of the library back to your room again?” John nodded toward the collection of books piled in Sherlock's arms. “Here, give me those,” he huffed, grabbing the top half of the stack.

 

***

 

Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this excited about a break. He was as nervous as an ice golem on the first day of spring. He was looking forward to the chance to observe a real Muggle family up-close and personal, but he was also going to _John’s_ house. He kept getting alternate flashes of fever, and then chills up and down his spine for no reason other than nerves. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he was coming down with the flu.

He’d packed his trunk days ago, and on the morning of the trip, sent his owl, Merlin ahead to follow John’s owl, Simpson, to the Watsons’ home. “There’s no floo network at my house.” John had warned him. “If you want to talk to anyone, your owl’s the only way. Don’t worry, my mum is used to the owls. We have a place for them to sleep.”

 

***

 

Sherlock looked around with disbelief as they boarded the carriages to the train station, swept along with the other students giddy with the promise of holidays. Even climbing onto the Hogwarts Express hadn’t completely assured him this wasn’t a dream. He surreptitiously pushed his sleeve back, and pinched his arm to make sure he was still awake. Yup, it hurt, definitely awake. They found a compartment with the twins, and Owen (Teddy seemed to have disappeared to meet up with a mysterious lady friend), and settled in for the trip.

They had an uproariously good time playing Exploding Snap until the Trolley witch came by pushing the snack cart. Sherlock dug a couple of gold galleons out of his pocket, and bought everyone an armload of treats to pass around. The chocolate frogs with their trading cards were a big hit. Soon though, they were chasing the hopping frogs all around the compartment, laughing when one landed in Sherlock’s curls and buried in. He leaned over, and shook his hair out with both hands to dislodge it. John was watching him with a strange expression when he straightened back up, but quickly turned it into a friendly smile.

Owen and the twins dug out their stacks of Wizard trading cards, comparing them to swap for any they didn’t already have.

“Ooh, I need a Harry Potter,” Dom said, peering at Owen's collection. “I’ll trade you an Albus Dumbledore card for it.”

“Naw, I have him already,” Owen said, considering the cards fanned out in Dom’s hands. “I’ll take that Hermione Granger-Weasely you’ve got for it though.”

"Done and dusted," Dom said as they happily exchanged.

“I think someone’s got a crush," Tom crowed, making kissing noises as Owen continued to gaze lovingly at his new aquisition.

“Ah, shut it.” Owen waved him off, still staring at the card. “True love can withstand the taunts of you knobheads.”

“You do know she’s married, don’t you?” Tom asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I can still love her from afar,” Owen protested, looking up with a sigh.

“Come on Tom, leave him be.” John shoved his shoulder. “At least he’s got good taste. Aren’t you the one with all those _Gretchen and the Gremlins_ posters all over the wall? Hmmm?"

“I like their music,” Tom grumbled, but the blush creeping up his neck belied his casual tone.

It still amazed Sherlock that he was accepted now as a part of a group of friends like this that laughed and joked so easily with each other.

“What about you Sherlock. Got any celebrity crushes? You’re awfully quiet over there.” Dom leered at him.

“Ah.” Sherlock blushed slightly as all eyes swung his way. “Sorry, no celebrity crushes to report, but I’ll let you know if anything pops up.”

He regretted his choice of words immediately, but since everyone enjoyed the laugh that washed over the group, he chuckled along with them.

It was late afternoon when the train finally pulled into Kings Cross station. Chaos ruled as everyone hurried to repack their loose things, grab their bags, and push into the hallways.

“Have a great break!” Tom called as he and his brother left. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Dom just waved good-bye over his shoulder as the twins disappeared.

“See you ugly gits in a week!” Owen called with a smile, and headed off as well.

Everyone had scattered by the time Sherlock and John finally rounded up their baggage, and headed in to the main part of the station. A round-faced woman with curly, fair hair stood searching the crowds. She smiled broadly when she spotted them.

“Johnny!” she cried, waving.

“Mum!” John waved back, and led Sherlock over to her.

“Oh honey, I think you grew another inch. Look, you’re taller than me now!” She pulled John into a hug about the neck that nearly cut off his breathing.

John patted her shoulder, and stood, catching his breath. “Mum, this is Sherlock.” He swung an arm over to introduce him.

“Oh, of course. Sherlock how lovely to meet you.” Mrs. Watson looked for a moment as if she were about to engulf Sherlock into an equally crushing hug, but at the look on his face, she stopped, settling for a handshake.

“It’s lovely to meet you too, Mrs. Watson, thank you for having me to visit at such short notice.” Sherlock nodded, and shook her hand gracefully. At John’s incredulous look, Sherlock raised an eyebrow his way. What? He had manners when he needed them.

“Of course, any friend of John’s is welcome. I’m so glad he finally brought someone home," John's mum said kindly. "Come on, lads, the car’s this way.” She turned to lead them on.

Sherlock was almost beside himself. He was actually going to ride in a real Muggle car! He nearly shivered with anticipation, but settled for a wide grin as he and John fell in behind her, pulling their luggage along.

“All right there, Sherlock?” John smiled at him.

“All right, John.”


	8. Eight

As soon as Mrs. Watson pulled the car out of the parking lot and into traffic, Sherlock had begun devising plans for getting the keys away from so he could try driving it later. Then it occurred to him that this might not be "good guest behaviour," and he stuffed his five plots away. It was fascinating watching the way she was chewing gum, telling John an elaborate story about one of the neighbor girls, and expertly navigating around people, buses, other cars, and some man in a funny hat on a bicycle – all without breaking a sweat. John sat up front next to his Mum with Sherlock in the back, so he was free to peer out either window to watch the chaos of Muggle London streaming by. John’s house was in Hertfordshire, so Sherlock was treated to the drama of the scenery morphing from busy urban streets to the more sedate lanes of the country. 

“Sherlock, where does your family live?” Mrs. Watson called back over the seats to pull Sherlock into the never-ending flow of her conversation. 

“The South Downs in Sussex, ma’am,” Sherlock replied politely.

“Oh that’s a lovely area. What do your parents do?” Mrs. Watson said as she casually navigated around another car that seemed to be headed straight for them.

Sherlock sucked in a breath, and decided that perhaps he wasn’t that keen on driving the car after all. Maybe he could make John do it later instead. “My father is deceased, and my mother is . . . independently wealthy.” Sherlock frowned at an advert sign by the side of the road that seemed to indicate that all your life’s problems could be solved by a certain brand of drink. He was certain that the Muggles weren’t allowed potions. Curious.

“I’m so sorry about your father. Was it recent?” John's mum asked. 

“No, it was sixteen years ago. I was just a baby. I don’t remember him at all.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Watson paused. “John’s father died sixteen years ago too.” She shot John a look as he had obviously just nudged her, then turned her eyes back to the road. “But on to happier topics. What sorts of things do you like to eat, Sherlock? I’ve stocked up on bangers and mash, and fish fingers for John.”

“I’m sure I’ll enjoy whatever you’re serving John,” Sherlock reassured her.

John twisted nearly backwards in his seat to stare at Sherlock. The implied _Who are you, and what have you done with my mate?_ was all too apparent in his expression. 

Sherlock shrugged innocently. _What? It’s your mother, I’m being nice._

“He likes porridge, chicken, curry, baked aubergine, and anything made with pastry.” John told his mum turning back around. 

Sherlock was inordinately pleased that John had observed his dining habits so well. He wasn’t sure he could have given such an accurate list. 

“Well, good. I have most of that at the house already. I’ll probably have to make a trip to the shops for the aubergine though,” Mrs. Watson mused.

“Please don’t go to any trouble on my account,” Sherlock said.

“Oh sweetie, it’s no trouble. It will be nice to have people to cook for this week.” 

“Speaking of people to cook for, is Harry in yet?” John asked.

“She’s in tomorrow – said she had some things to take care of at her flat today.” 

“Getting pissed is most likely what she has to do today,” John grumbled. 

“John, let’s try to all get along this visit, okay?” Mrs. Watson chided. “I know Harriet . . . isn’t always easy.” John's mum looked like she wanted to say more, but held her tongue as she turned into a side street, and slid the car neatly into a driveway.

“We’re here - home sweet home," she called out brightly. “All right let’s see about getting these great stonking trunks up the steps.”

 

***

 

Sherlock was entranced with everything in John’s home. The furniture was fairly routine, but the lamps, the light switches, and the electronics scattered about looked simply fascinating. He couldn’t wait for a chance to examine them more closely. They managed to heft the luggage up the stairs to John’s room before Sherlock properly noticed the odd purple cylinders set in the hallway on both levels. 

“John, would give me a tour of your home, if you please?” Sherlock asked as soon as the trunks and bags were safely stowed.

“Yeah, sure,” John said leading Sherlock out of his room, to point out Harry’s room across the landing, a quick peek at his mum’s, the loo, a hall closet with linens, and then down the stairs to see the living room, the kitchen where Mrs. Watson was starting dinner, the dining room, and the ground-level toilet. Since it wasn’t a big house, it didn’t take that long to show. 

Sherlock pulled John into the dining room and shut the door once they were done. “John those purple things – I saw two in the hallways, and one in the living room and the kitchen - do you know anything about them?”

“Naw, those are new. Mum’s always buying things to put around the house. Why?”

“Because they’re wizard things. They’re sneak-o-views.”

“THEY'RE WHAT?” John sputtered.

“They’re devices to spy and record images and sound, they come in pairs. If someone has the other half of the pair, they can see and hear everything that happens around its twin. Someone made sure that at least four of these things were placed in your home.”

“Damn. I’m sure my mum has no idea.” John ran a hand back through his hair.

“Let’s go ask your mother about them, and then get them out of here,” Sherlock said.

John opened the door and led the way back to the kitchen. Mrs. Watson was frying something that smelled lovely already. 

“Hope you boys are hungry tonight. I’ve got lots cooking.” His mum smiled at them.

“Starving, mum. Hey listen, I noticed these purple things all over the house, where did you get them?”

“Oh these? Aren't they nice?” She picked up the one on the counter in the kitchen. “A very nice man stopped at the door a few days ago, and sold them to me – they’re air fresheners. They ionize the air and put out a lovely lavender smell. I got them for a steal.”

“How many did you buy?” John asked.

“I got four of them. He told me they’d do best in large main areas.”

“I’m so sorry.” Sherlock said, looking properly mournful. “I think I’m allergic to them. My eyes are watering already.”

“Oh dear, we’ll have to move them then. Maybe I could just put them in my bedroom,” she said considering the one in her hand.

“NO.” Both boys jumped forward at the same time. 

“No, mum, really. Just having them in the house could make Sherlock break out in hives. Let me get rid of them, and I’ll get you some new ones at the shops later that won’t bother anyone.” John reached forward, and plucked it out of her hand before she really had a chance to protest. 

“All right, if they’re that bad, of course,” Mrs. Watson called to their retreating backs as they hurried to gather up the remaining ones into a bin liner bag. 

Sherlock had John pause in the hall before they went outside. He slipped his wand out of his pocket and waved it once. “Accio spy-eye!” he commanded. A small thing stuck to the wall above the front door detached itself and flew into his hand. 

“What . . .?” John started, but Sherlock put a finger to his lips for silence, and dropped the thing into the bin bag to join the rest of the collection.

They didn’t speak a word until they had walked halfway up the street, and John had tossed the bag into a neighbor’s dust bin. 

“Who do you reckon left those little presents?” John asked, shaken. “My mum is nobody special. Why would someone bother spying on her like that?” 

“John, I’m sorry. I think it’s my presence that has caused this intrusion,” Sherlock said. “This business has the smell of Mycroft all over it. I understand if you’d like me to leave.” 

“Hang on, it’s not your fault, and you’re not going anywhere. You just got here!” John protested. “So why would Mycroft want to spy on my house exactly?!”

Sherlock smiled weakly back at him. “I think in some twisted way, he’s looking out for me.” 

John huffed out a laugh. “Well, I hope several days of watching my mum bake biscuits, and do yoga has convinced him that the Watsons are no big threat.”

“I’d say your mum looks perfectly harmless, but then I saw how she drove that car from the train station.” Sherlock smiled wryly.

“Yeh, mum’s pretty good in traffic,” John agreed.

“Speaking of the car . . . can we drive it while we’re here?” Sherlock tried not to sound too eager.

“Sorry Sherlock, I can’t get my license until this summer when I turn seventeen.” John sighed. “Until then, it’s the bus, and our own two feet for getting around. Don’t worry though, there’s a bus stop just ‘round the corner.” John pointed up the street to the main road. “We’ll survive.”

“Ooh, that’s almost as good. I’ve always wanted to ride a Muggle bus,” Sherlock chortled.

John just smiled at him. “Hey, I wonder if there’s any other spy things that we missed?” he mused as they neared the front walk. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll do a full sweep of the house, and see if there’s anything still lurking about,” Sherlock said.

“It’ll be handy being allowed to do magic outside of school once I hit seventeen too.” John sighed. 

“You can’t do magic outside of school?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, no. It’s not allowed for under-aged Wizards. You mean you DID when you were younger?”

“The rules might be a bit more lax for students in a Wizarding house,” Sherlock admitted. “I would assume those growing up in a Muggle home are more tightly monitored.”

“God, I remember hexing Harry with a puffer-face curse when I got home for the summer after my first year. I got an owl from the ministry so fast it made my head spin. The citation said if I did magic outside of school again, I’d be suspended from Hogwarts. You better believe I locked my wand up after that.”

John opened the front door, and held it for Sherlock to follow. “Mmmm, that smells delicious,” he said, taking in a breath. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply as well, and had to agree - the food smells emanating from the kitchen were divine. 

 

***

 

After a magical search that turned up nothing else foreign in the house, Sherlock had a delightful time examining all the unfamiliar items around John’s home. They used the phone to dial for the time and weather a number of times just because Sherlock found it so amazing. John demonstrated how the digital alarm clocks, the radio, the telly, and the microwave oven worked, and Sherlock went around turning all the light switches on and off until John’s mother wondered if he had an OCD problem. 

Dinner was a cheery affair. John’s mother covered the table with so many dishes it didn’t seem too different from eating at a house table at Hogwarts, except that he and John had to help with the washing up afterwards. “I love to cook, but it’s a microwave dinner for me most evenings when I get home late.” John’s mother was a real estate agent, and Sherlock listened avidly to all she could tell him about her business and daily routine. 

When he thanked her so nicely for the cheesecake she’d made for afters, Mrs. Watson fairly glowed. “Why didn’t I get any of the polite teenagers in my house?” she joked.

Sherlock got a bit quiet at that. “I think my mother would heartily disagree with you that she had any polite teenagers in her house.”

John’s mum smiled kindly at him. “I suppose we all act up a bit in our own homes, don’t we?” she said patting his arm. “We’re happy to have you to visit though. It’s nice to finally meet some of John’s friends.”

“Yeah, I’m glad Sherlock wasn’t hiking the alps or sailing in Greece this break like he usually does.” John winked at Sherlock. “Mum, can I have more some raspberries?”

Their owls arrived after dinner. John checked to make sure they had food and water in the small hutch mounted at the back of the house beside the kitchen window. Merlin landed on Sherlock’s shoulder, and gave his hair an affectionate tug before following Simpson into the hutch. As fun as it was visiting John’s house, the arrival of an old friend felt very reassuring amidst all the strangeness that made up John’s Muggle life.

John asked if he fancied a movie, and they ended up chosing a DVD titled “Thor something.” John seemed to enjoy it mightily as they watched with a bowl of popcorn between them on the sofa. Sherlock marveled at the quality of the pictures, but had trouble following the story line exactly. Sitting so close to John alone in a darkened room kept derailing his concentration on the recorded play. Twice their fingers tangled when they reached for the popcorn at the same time.

John’s mother poked her head in when the movie ended, and told them she was heading to bed, but wanted to get Sherlock settled before she went. She helped John haul out a camping pad and sleeping bag from the cupboard, and dropped them off in John’s room before wishing them a good night. 

After Sherlock had washed up in the loo, and changed into pyjamas, he sat looking about John’s room, waiting for John to finish his ablutions. It was a pleasantly jumbled space. Some kind of aircraft hung from the ceiling by string over the twin bed, posters covered the walls featuring a sports team that didn’t move, and any number of knick knacks, and books sat crammed side by side into the shelves. He picked up a plastic man with a head that wobbled, and hurriedly put it back before he accidentally broke something.

“I’m sorry we don’t have a spare bed,” John apologized when he returned and helped Sherlock spread the sleeping pad and bag over the floor. “I’d put you in Harry’s room, but she’s in tomorrow, and you’d just have to move.” 

“No, it’s fine. I’d rather be in here. I don’t mind.”

After they had settled, and John had turned off the light, Sherlock gasped. There were small stars glowing all around the room. 

“I didn’t think Muggles had magic in their homes!” he exclaimed.

“It’s not,” John chuckled. “Just glow-in-the-dark stickers. I can look up the science of it tomorrow for you.” 

To Sherlock’s disappointment the pale greenish glow faded after a few minutes. Sherlock stared into the dark for several heartbeats before asking John something on his mind. “John, how much does your mother know about the magical world?” 

“I think she knows more than she lets on. I’ve never told her anything that was really a surprise to her, and she was expecting it when my letter for Hogwarts arrived.”

“Because your dad was a wizard,” Sherlock prompted.

“Yeah, I think my dad agreed to live as a Muggle with her, but he must have shown her a lot of the magical world while they were together. They were married five years . . . before he died in at the Battle of Hogwarts. He was in something called the Order of the Phoenix. They sent my mum a medal. I really wish I had gotten a chance to know him, but I’m glad he died fighting for something he believed in.”

“My father died at the Battle of Hogwarts too,” Sherlock said quietly.

“I didn’t know that," John replied, just as hushed. “Do you miss him - wish he’d been around to watch you grow up?”

“Sometimes,” Sherlock said, then paused a moment. “John, this isn’t something we really talk about much now, but my father . . . he fought on Voldemort’s side in the war. He was a Death Eater. It shames me to no end that someone in my family could have been so . . . narrow-minded, and wrong.”

“Goddamn,” John swore softly. “That’s tough.”

“He died when I was a baby of course, I never knew him so I’ve never been able to ask him why he did it. My family’s always been exclusive, but the younger generation at least seems more tolerant of non-Wizards. Mycroft has never been that extreme in his views. He dated a witch who had a Muggle father for awhile.”

“So, you’re a pure-blood then?” John asked. 

“As far back as the records go.” Sherlock winced to admit, then shivered as a cold thought rolled over him. “John, I just had a terrible idea. What if our fathers fought against each another in the war?”

“Ah.” John rolled up onto his side to peer down at Sherlock through the gloom. “Well, it’s not either of our faults what our dads did or didn’t do, hmmm? All we can do is be the best with what we’ve got. I mean you’re not a Death Eater.”

“Never,” Sherlock spat out. “It’s a vile, completely illogical stance.” 

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“You’re a good one.”

“Thanks John. You are too.”

“Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John.”

 

***

 

When John woke, Sherlock was already at his desk thoroughly enjoying his explorations of the device he’d found stored in one of the top drawers. 

“Jesus, Sherlock. You found Youtube already?” John asked sleepily, peering over his shoulder.

“John this is fascinating. The Muggle version of the Wizard Web is astonishing.”

“Yeh, that’s one word for it.” John chuckled, rubbing the grit from one eye. “I was waiting to ease you into the internet, but it looks like you already got there. I have to say, it’s a real downside to Hogwarts - not having access to it.”

Sherlock had to agree. The school library had a number of portal devices for students to access the Wizarding Web, but the magic net only showed the approved news, research, and history recordings that the World Wizarding Web division of the ministry put out. There was none of the amateur text, and pictures that flooded the Muggle web. He was only glad John hadn’t woken up when he’d found those porn sites.

“I hope you don’t mind me using your portal device. I’m sorry I didn’t ask first, but you were really out,” Sherlock apologized. John had looked utterly adorable fast asleep, curled around his pillow, and Sherlock had tiptoed around to avoid waking him.

“That’s okay. You’re welcome to borrow my things, and it’s called a ‘laptop.’” John smiled. “Did you research the ‘glow in the dark’ technology yet? I know it’s some kind of a chemical,” John said stretching his arms over his head.

“Erm, no, I got a bit sidetracked.” Sherlock admitted watching the shift of John’s tee shirt as he stretched.

“That’s easy to do,” John said. “Here let me have it for a minute. I’ll get us to Yahoo.”

 

***

 

There were scones, bacon, eggs, and coffee in the kitchen for breakfast when they made it downstairs. John’s mum looked as if she’d been up for awhile, but had waited to make the food until she heard them moving around upstairs. 

“Sweetie, I’m sorry. I have to go into work today. I have a big Open House on Burningham Road this afternoon. Will you two be okay here by yourselves?”

“Sure no problem,” John said around a mouthful of eggs. “I thought I’d give Sherlock a tour of the local shops. We’ll take the bus.” 

“Great. Let me give you some money, and you can get a few things for me too while you’re out.” His mother smiled at him. “How about I’ll pick up a pizza for dinner on my way home? Harry should be in by then.”

“Yeah, that sounds brilliant,” John said. 

“Sherlock, what do you want on your pizza?” Mrs. Watson asked.

“Whatever you’re having will be fine,” Sherlock replied. He didn’t want to admit he’d never actually eaten pizza before. 

John rolled his eyes. “How about we get a cheese one, and an everything-on-it one?” 

“Sounds like a plan. Put your dishes in the sink when you’re done and I’ll get them later.” His mum smiled, and dropped a kiss on top of John’s head on her way out of the room. 

 

***

 

“Erm, Sherlock is that all you brought to wear?” John paused in rummaged through his dresser drawer to eye the clothes Sherlock was pulling out of his school trunk.

“What’s wrong with this?” Sherlock asked. He'd packed the few things he had that he knew were appropriate for Muggle events. 

“Just button-up shirts and fitted trousers?”

“I didn’t think my robes would go over so well.”

“No, that’s true. You'll look a bit overdressed for a trip to the shops though," John said as he peered at Sherlock more closely. "I can lend you a couple of loose tee shirts and a hoodie that I think will fit you, but all my jeans will be way too short. I know, we can just get you some track suit bottoms when we go shopping.”

“All right, thanks,” Sherlock said, catching the clothes lobbed his way. John was certainly his native guide for all things Muggle. 

 

***

Sherlock felt like he’d taken another swallow of felix felicis spending the day with John in the Muggle world. Everything had been new and fascinating from the great smelly bus that squealed to a stop to take them into town, to the shops with their weird and fantastic offerings, to the ice creams they’d gotten at a sweets shop that didn’t sell anything that looked familiar to him. They’d had a marvelous time finding track suit bottoms that fit him. The trousers looked fairly ugly to him, but they were comfortable, and he felt certain John had spent time looking at his arse when he came out of the fitting rooms to model. John had bought him two pairs. The only downside had been running into a girl that John knew from primary school who talked their ears off until John finally told her they had to go run an errand for his mother. To make good the small lie, they nipped into a corner shop and bought several air fresheners for her to replace the ones they’d gathered up and thrown away the day before. Sherlock was sorry he didn’t have any Muggle money on him to help pay for things. It hadn’t occurred to him to change any Wizard coin over before the visit.

By the time another bus had dropped them off, and they’d walked the few blocks back to John’s house, a strange car covered in bumper stickers had appeared in the driveway. 

“Ah, Harry’s here,” John announced as they neared the front door. “Brace yourself.” They could already hear a muffled version of the booming music playing inside. 

The first thing that hit them was the wall of sound. Excruciatingly loud music, heavy on the down beat, was pounding down the stairs. A short, ginger-haired woman appeared from the kitchen carrying a drink, and a bowl of crisps. She was quite a sight with one side of her hair sheared, and the other falling in a long sweep over her eyes with a purple stripe down the middle. She shook her long fringe back, and Sherlock caught the flash of a metal ring in her nose to match the many hanging up each ear.

“Hey short stuff!” She cried upon seeing John. She quickly set her snack down on a side table, and grabbed John in a tight squeeze. “Though I guess I can’t really call you that any more, huh? You finally grew a couple of inches.”

The Watson women seemed to be grabby lot, and Sherlock was glad that when she released John from her strangle hold, she settled for merely wiggling her fingers at him when John introduced them. 

“Wotcher Sherlock. That’s an odd name.”

“It is,” Sherlock agreed. “It’s an old family one that keeps getting bandied about.”

"Yep, still weird for a first name though," she said tilting her head to the side to peer past the fall of hair that slipped over her face again.

“Ah Harry, leave off. It’s not like ‘Harriet’ is that common either.” 

“Oh, John, you and your plebian name. You know you're jealous.” Harry stuck her tongue out at him. “So, I was just about to light up. Do you and your boyfriend want to join me?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” John said quickly at the same time Sherlock asked “Light up what?”

Harriet quirked a sly smile. “Pot? Grass? Marijuana? Cannabis? Don’t they have that at your special secret school?”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea . . .” John started to say as Sherlock cut him off.

“Yes, please. I’ve always wanted to try that.” 

“A virgin, huh? All right come on, this should be fun.” Harry grinned widely. 

“HARRY!” John complained. 

“Oh come on, Captain Watson, unstarch your knickers, and live a little.” Harry winked, and grabbed her bowl, and drink to lead them up to her bedroom where the music throbbed the loudest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any Brits out there willing to share any slang terms for marijuana? I must confess to some skepticism to anything found online. Anything I know personally is American. I've read online that Brits call weed anything from "hit the hippie lettuce" to "spankdust" or "wazzgiblets." SERIOUSLY?


	9. Nine

Harry’s bedroom was more colorful and more untidy that John’s. Sherlock was grateful when she reached over, and twisted a knob on a set of metal boxes on her shelves, and the music dropped to a more reasonable level. A large furry rug covered most of the floor, and Harry sank onto it motioning the boys to join her. Sherlock took a seat beside her, but John still hovered in the doorway. 

“Harry, come on, I’m not sure Sherlock understands smoking pot.” 

“How old are you, luv?” Harry asked Sherlock as she tugged a large bag off her bed to the floor, and began rooting through it.

“I’m seventeen.” Sherlock told her then turned to face John. “John, honestly, I’m not a child. I’ve read extensively about cannabis, and its effects on the human system. I’ve been curious about it forever, and it isn’t easy to get in Wizarding circles.”

“There ya go, Johnny. Looks like Sherlock knows his weed.” Harry smiled as she pulled out the bag of crumbled plant clippings she was obviously looking for. “Shut the door will you?”

John closed the door, and sighed as he dropped onto the rug next to them. “All right, you reprobates. Getting baked it is.”

Harry found a small flat pipe, and a device that produced flame that she called a lighter from elsewhere in her bag. Sherlock was amazed with the lighter, and kept playing with it until he burnt his thumb. Harry took it away from him telling him “Okay, I’ll operate the heavy machinery here on, mate.”

The smoke from the pipe was acrid and smelled wretched, and Sherlock coughed horribly the first time he inhaled it. John patted him on the back, and fetched him a glass of water from the loo. Sherlock was frustrated that the others seemed to inhale with no problem. “Go slower, take it easy.” John cautioned him, and by the third round of passing the pipe, Sherlock was sucking the smoke down, and blowing it back out like a dragon with much more aplomb. 

He wasn’t sure what he expected to happen. He didn’t hallucinate, or suddenly want to throw himself out a window, but he did feel . . . looser. His bones didn’t quite want to hold him up anymore, and he found himself sliding down until his head was in John’s lap. Everything was so funny and marvelous at John’s house. He found himself laughing at everything Harry or John said, and when Harry passed the crisps around, it was one of the best-tasting things he’d ever eaten. 

John began idly carding fingers through his hair, and Sherlock felt as if he could simply move into this moment, and stay here forever. He closed his eyes, and made a noise in the back of his throat not unlike a purr.

“You’re just a big cat, aren’t you?” John smiled. He looked so strange hanging upside down over him, and yet his face was still so dear, so very John. 

“Meow,” Sherlock said, feeling delighted when John chuckled, and the movement bounced his head against John’s lap.

“You two are sodding precious.” Harry laughed at them, and Sherlock even found that delightful. They might have lain there like that for rest of the day had the sound of Mrs. Watson’s car pulling into the driveway not startled them from their reverie.

“Oh, shit. Open the window, John,” Harry said springing into action. Within a minute she had a stick of incense burning, three scented candles lit, and a can of lime air freshener sprayed around the room. 

 

***

 

If Mrs. Watson sensed anything amiss with her three charges that evening, she chose to ignore it. She did exclaim that it was lucky she’d picked up an extra medium pizza and the breadsticks, as everyone attacked the food with such enthusiasm.

“Great nosh, mum, thanks!” Harry said.

“Yeh, thanks for getting it, mum,” John chimed in.

“Yum,” Sherlock said, and reached for his fourth slice of cheese pizza.

“Good to see nothing will go to waste,” Mrs. Watson said. “It’s always nice to have pizza when you’ve had a busy day.” She sighed.

“How did your Open House go?” John asked her, biting into his third bread stick.

“Oh fairly well. It was pretty dead at the start, but then a number of people showed up toward the end. The house wasn’t too much bigger than ours, but it has the most clever little conservatory built on to the back. I always thought about doing something like that with our place. What do you think, a nice screened porch off the dining room here?” She waved her hand toward the window at the back of the dining room.

“Yeh, mum, that’s a great idea.” Harry nodded.

“Well, it’ll have to wait until I’ve got a little more saved in the bank,” Mrs. Watson smiled wistfully, “but maybe someday.”

After dinner, the Watsons agreed on a DVD. This one was a family favorite, some “Bond” spy movie, and again, Sherlock tried to follow along, but his attention was even worse tonight. He made it past several confusing explosions and car chases scenes before almost nodding off. Sherlock roused himself to go use the loo, whispering such to John before he left the room. After using the toilet, and washing his hands, he wandered down the hallway to the dining room, and looked out the window into the yard. He thought about it a moment, and decided yes, he could certainly do it. He wanted so much to pay the Watsons back for their kind hospitality. While the family cheered some part of the movie, he crept back upstairs to John’s room to retrieve his wand from his trunk. One drawback of wearing his new track suit bottoms was having nowhere to carry his wand, though John assured him it would be best if he didn’t carry it about whilst visiting Hertfordshire anyway.

It wasn’t overly complicated magic all things considered, and only took a bit of his concentration and effort. When he was satisfied that his work was up to his exacting standards, Sherlock nodded, and wandered into the kitchen to get a drink from the fridge. 

John looked up in question when Sherlock finally made it back to the living room, sliding onto the sofa beside him. Sherlock simply held the fizzy drink up in answer to where he’d been, and John nodded, slipping back into watching the movie. 

By the time the show actually ended, Sherlock had nodded off for good. He woke up with a start, his head tossed suddenly off John’s shoulder as the boy leapt to his feet. Someone was yelling something quite loudly. No, two someones were yelling something quite loudly, and it was definitely coming from inside the house. Sherlock rubbed his eyes as he stumbled upright to follow John’s hasty progress toward all the commotion. 

John stopped behind his mother and sister at the doorway to the dining room where they were still exclaiming, though winding down in volume. He turned as Sherlock joined them, his mouth firm, but his eyes fairly dancing. “Oh Sherlock. What have you done?”

Where once the Watsons’ dining room had ended in a north-facing wall with a curtained window, now stood open folding doors that led into the foyer of an open-plan, two-story holiday villa. Pillars supported an upper level of balconies that framed the main great room dotted with tasteful wicker furniture and large potted plants that swayed in the breeze from the overhead ceiling fans. Even more fantastical were the wide windows around the room that let in gorgeous night views of a Mediterranean beach and ocean beyond. Once everyone quieted down, they could even hear the gentle lapping of the waves outside. 

“Is it safe to go in?” Mrs. Watson asked in a wondering voice, walking forward to lay her hands on the folding doors. 

“Oh of course it is. Safe as houses,” Sherlock said, and had to stop himself from giggling. John giggled for him, and soon the two of them were snickering in full swing. 

“I’m going in,” John’s mum said, ignoring them.

“Mum, no, how do we know this is safe?” Harry looked much more upset than her mother did. 

“Oh come on we’ll all go together. If something goes wrong, we’ll have two wizards with us.” 

Mrs. Watson led the way, stepping over the threshold into the sudden new extension to their house. John and Sherlock followed her, and Harry, determined to not be left behind, brought up the rear. 

They walked around exploring the place. Upstairs, there were several bedrooms and a parlour that opened up onto a verandah. It let them step out into the sweet night breeze, offering a fantastic view of the moonlight across the waves foaming over the beach. Once they returned downstairs, they found what looked like a study, an exercise room, and a back door that sadly when opened, simply led into their back yard. John’s mum exclaimed in wonder that when they turned around to view the villa from the yard, it only looked like a small conservatory with a few benches and potted plants inside. 

John’s mum led them back into the villa, and finding a wine cooler inside the kitchen, snagged a bottle of white, and some glasses from a cabinet. They each poured themselves a glass of wine, and returned to the upstairs verandah where they could at least enjoy the sights and briny smells of the beachfront property even if they couldn’t actually reach it. 

“Cheers,” Mrs. Watson said, and they clinked glasses, relaxing back to sip their wine on chaise lounges as they watched the ocean endlessly rolling out below.

“Okay. Fine. This is all quite fabulous, but how did you DO this?” Harry demanded of Sherlock tossing back her glass of wine, and pouring another. 

“Oh hush, Harry. It’s magic. Just enjoy it.” Mrs. Watson waved at her. “Sherlock. Thank you.” She reached over to pat his arm. “This is lovely. It brings back so many memories.”

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Watson,” Sherlock said as a warmth spread over him. John hadn’t said much as they’d toured the villa, and he was glad that at least his mum was pleased.

“We can’t keep it, of course. We could never have anyone over to our house, and it would cause no end of trouble, but for tonight, and maybe breakfast tomorrow we could have it? Then it has to go back.” She said firmly as she drained the last of her wine. 

Sherlock felt a bit disappointed, but when he struggled to really think about it, he agreed with her. 

They lingered awhile under the moonlight until everyone was yawning mightily. “Come on troops, back to Chez Watson. I’d prefer to have everyone sleep in familiar spots tonight, but we can come back tomorrow.” She turned to Sherlock. “Is it safe to have it here overnight? Can anything slip in while we’re sleeping?”

“No, the villa’s quite safe.” Sherlock said. “It really is here in your backyard. It’s just the outside that’s still on the beach.” 

“It’s pretty, but I still say it’s creepy,” Harry complained, and snagging the half-full bottle of wine, was the first one back into their townhouse. 

“Oh Harry.” Mrs. Watson sighed watching her go. “Thank you again Sherlock.” She turned toward him, and standing up on tiptoes, dropped a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. She ruffled her hand through John’s hair, and kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t stay up too late you two. You look exhausted.”

Once John and Sherlock made it back to John’s room with the door closed behind, they took one look at each other, and burst out laughing. They fell back onto the bed fairly rolling in mirth.

“Oh, you mad thing. That was brilliant. The LOOK on Harry’s face when she saw it.” John giggled. 

“It was fun,” Sherlock agreed. 

When the belly laughs worked their way through giggles, and into sprawled on the bed catching their breath, Sherlock found their faces hovering mere centimeters apart. John’s breath seemed to stop. His eyes grew large, as his pupils widened. Perhaps Sherlock shouldn’t have had that glass of wine on top of smoking the weed earlier. His head felt muddled, and he knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. John's tongue flicked out to run over his lower lip, and he moved an almost imperceptible fraction closer. It was all the invitation that Sherlock needed. He flew over the small chasm between them like a bird, pressing his lips to John’s. It was amazing, it was fantastic, it was . . . John freezing, his body going rigid, and his face a perfect study in shock when Sherlock pulled back to scan him. Sherlock quickly pushed to the far side of the bed putting some distance between them.

“I . . . Sherlock . . . I . . . .” John couldn’t seem to form a complete sentence as his mouth opened and closed.

Sherlock could form the words in his head just fine without John’s assistance. “Sorry Sherlock, I’m not like that. I’m sorry you got the wrong idea. I like you, but I just don’t fancy you. I hope we can still be friends . . .” Sherlock’s face burned as he gathered his knees to his chest, and pressed his hot cheeks against them. He felt like the worst sort of fool, a self-deluded one. John made a more coherent noise. He was actually starting to pull some words together, and Sherlock found that he just couldn’t listen to them. 

“I’m sorry, John. I misjudged. Excuse me.” Sherlock rolled to his feet, and rushed out the door. He walked without noticing where he was going, but unsurprisingly, he found himself heading back to the new extension to the Watsons’ house, fleeing into its warm ocean-scented rooms.

 

***

Sherlock was so wrapped up in his misery, he didn’t hear John come into the airy bedroom until he was standing beside him. The only light in the room was the full moon shining in through the open window, washing everything with a silvery dream-like quality that only added to Sherlock’s scrambled state.

He nearly jumped when John put a tentative hand to his shoulder, “Sherlock I’m sorry, please listen to me.” When Sherlock sniffled, breathing in wetly, John crumpled, crawling onto the bed to pull Sherlock against him. 

“Oh, God, oh God, I’m so sorry. You surprised me, I wasn’t expecting . . . I mean maybe I was hoping, but I didn’t even know I was hoping . . . I . . .” John hardly made sense, but he pushed Sherlock’s arms away from his knees, and unfolded his body to tumble against him. Warm, soft touches fell over Sherlock’s face like rain as John peppered kisses on his forehead, eyelids, and cheeks. 

“That was the most amazing kiss of my life, and I . . . I missed it. Please can we try again?” John begged.

Sherlock still hadn’t spoken a word when he surged against John, and opened his mouth against his. This time John was there waiting to catch him, and his lips and tongue danced over Sherlock’s in a way he hadn’t even known was possible until just now. A sound at the back of his throat brought an answering moan from John. John rolled over on top of him, moving a hand to cup his jaw as the kiss deepened into something more. Sherlock reached up, burying one hand into the sweet slide of John’s hair as his other gripped over his back. 

John finally pulled away for a breath of air, and sat back straddling Sherlock’s legs.

“John, God . . . I . . .” Sherlock couldn’t for the life of him come up with a lucid thought that wasn't _John._

“Yeah, I know.” John smiled down at him running a finger along his cheek, over his jaw and down the length of his neck as it to confirm where Sherlock ended and the pillow under him began. “Can we take off some of these clothes, can I touch you?” John’s voice was just above a whisper.

“Oh, God, yes.” Sherlock pushed his hands under John’s shirt and let his greedy palms slide up over the warm flesh of him, so solid underneath. “Please.”

They pulled clothes off as if they hadn’t another second to spare, and yet they had a whole night stretching out before them, and a gorgeous bed covered in silken sheets to spend it on. When they rolled together laid bare, clasping tightly, the sounds spilling from their throats mixed with the roar of the waves outside until it seemed as if they might be making love under water. They touched, and answered, stroked, and held, meeting together again and again like the never-ceasing waves outside, a sound that even wove into their dreams when they finally fell asleep tangled together as close as two people could possibly be.


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who've followed this story in progress! I wrote this for Exchangelock, and enjoyed the company, but of course am thrilled for all who find it later too. Sorry the ride is over, it was a lot of fun writing this one!

Sherlock woke to full sun beaming into the room, and the lullaby of the waves still crashing in the background. He felt marvelous where he lay stretched across the soft bed, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to open his eyes and break the spell. He didn’t know how John would feel about things in the bright light of morning. If he regretted anything, Sherlock might just have to curl up and die.

“Good morning, gorgeous.”

Sherlock blinked his eyes open to John leaning over him, his fringe sticking straight up, and a radiant smile curling across his lovely face as he watched him wake. He didn't think he'd ever had anyone smile at him quite like that before in his entire life.

“Good morning.” Sherlock was feeling a little shy, and wondered how awful his hair looked or how bad his breath smelled. John leaned in and kissed his lips so sweetly that all thoughts that weren’t about how wonderful John tasted flew from his mind. Sherlock wound his arms around John’s neck, and pulled him down beside him. Under the sheets, John was stirring to life as quickly as he was.

“John, that thing that you did last night, with your tongue . . . that was . . . good.”

John chuckled, and laid a soft kiss against Sherlock’s bare shoulder. “I thought it was pretty brilliant myself.”

“I was wondering if we could . . . do that again?”

“Hell, yes, we’re doing that again.” John grinned and swooped over him, pushing Sherlock down into the mattress to climb onto him.

A knock at the door froze them in place.

“Ignore it," Sherlock said pulling John’s lips down to his.

When the door handle turned and Mycroft Holmes walked into the room, John yelped and fell to the mattress, pulling the sheets up to his nose.

“Good morning Sherlock, John.” Mycroft nodded pleasantly to them both.

“Well, it was a good morning until you showed up.” Sherlock sat up higher, pushing a pillow behind him to face his brother. 

When John realized he had abandoned Sherlock to hide under the bedding, he dropped his grip on the sheets, and scooted over to fling both arms around him. He had obviously decided that even in his embarrassment, he wasn’t abandoning Sherlock again. A heat poured into Sherlock’s chest like molten honey, and he proudly slipped an answering arm around John’s shoulders.

“To what do we owe the honor of this visit?” Sherlock asked Mycroft.

“I might ask the same of you. Imagine my surprise when I arrived at my holiday villa only to find that its insides had disappeared to somewhere in the south of Britain. It would have taken me longer to find it had I not known your particular whereabouts.”

“It isn’t your villa, Mycroft, it belongs to the family.” Sherlock sniffed.

“Well, it isn’t yours to zap about as you please either,” Mycroft countered.

“Were you spying on my MUM?” John seemed to have woken up enough to join the conversation.

Mycroft cleared his throat, and had the good graces to look chagrined. “Ah, about that, I do regret my decision to have observation devices installed in your home. Mummy was concerned about the sort of people Sherlock would be staying with for the week. I might have overstepped my bounds a bit.”

“You know you could have just rung her up, you know, on her phone? Talked to her like a normal person!” John said bristling.

Sherlock glanced down. John looked devastatingly handsome in his anger.

“I do apologize.” Mycroft bowed his head slightly.

John glanced up sensing Sherlock’s eyes on him, and the gaze that passed between them was hot enough to fry eggs, which oddly enough they could now smell in the air.

“Yoo hoo, boys are you up?”

Mycroft passed a hand over himself and his pin-striped robe shimmered into a pin-striped suit just as Mrs. Watson appeared up the stairs to join them. John dropped an arm to sink down lower under the blankets again, but kept the arm around Sherlock’s back firmly in place.

“Ah, good morning all. I didn’t realize we had company.” Mrs. Watson smiled at them, taking in the scene in a glance.

“I do apologize for the unannounced intrusion,” Mycroft said smoothly, “but since this is my villa, perhaps it can be excused.”

“NOT your villa, it belongs to the family!” Sherlock piped up again.

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.” Mycroft turned to John’s mum extending a hand. “Mycroft Holmes at your service. I am the older brother of your wayward house guest.”

“June Watson,” she said taking his hand to shake. “Lovely to meet you, and it’s been grand having Sherlock to visit. I realize it was a naughty prank of his, adding the house to our dining room, but you mustn’t be too cross with him. It was a lovely treat, and we’ve so enjoyed borrowing it. We’re sending it right back after breakfast. Speaking of which, we have plenty. You must let me repay you for the use of your gorgeous holiday home by joining us.”

Mycroft looked like he might be about to refuse, but Mrs. Watson tucked her arm into his and wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Come on, let’s let these two sort themselves out, and they can join us in a minute.” She looked back over her shoulder at the two of them still pressed side by side in the bed. “Food’s on the table, don’t be too long,” she said with a wink.

John had turned crimson. “Okay, mum, thanks,” he mumbled as she steered Mycroft into the hallway, and closed the door behind them.

“AAAAarrrrrr!” John cried leaning over to bury his face in the blankets. “Oh God, I can never look at my mother again . . . or Harry . . . oh GOD.”

“John, I’m so sorry . . .” Sherlock placed a tentative hand over John’s curved back.

John gulped and sat back up. “You don’t understand. I gave Harry _such_ shit when she came out. Of course I was twelve at the time, but . . . GOD. She’ll be merciless.” John shuddered.

Sherlock removed his hand from John’s shoulder. “If you’d rather go down on your own, I can just wait up here.”

“Oh no you don’t. You’re coming down to take your lumps same as me. Besides, now that I’ve got you, I’m not letting go.” To prove his point, John pulled Sherlock down into a most spectacular kiss. It took much of the sting of the morning away. “About last night, I’m so sorry.”

“You’re SORRY for last night?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, no, not for everything that happened after I followed you over to this crazy place, but earlier in my bedroom. I’m sorry I was such an arse when you kissed me. That first time. I’m sorry.”

“I surprised you,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Yeah, you did, but I should have been paying better attention. You were so against all the ‘gland games’ as you called them. I didn’t think I had a chance with you, and of course I wasn’t even sure if I thought that way about you.”

“So, do you think about me that way now?” Sherlock punctuated his question with a sneaky squeeze to John’s backside.

“I think you could safely say that.” John hitched a leg over Sherlock’s thigh and drew him closer. I suppose I’d better check ‘bi-curious’ on my on-line profile now.”

“I think you’d better check ‘taken’ on your profile,” Sherlock said moving in to mouth at John’s neck.

John answered him by capturing his lips in an open-mouthed snog while their hands slid into interesting places. It only took a few minutes, and a few minutes more splashing off in the en-suite before they were tugging on yesterday’s clothes, and stumbling down the stairs with the most amazing grins plastered over their faces.

They were treated to the sight of Mycroft, Mrs. Watson, and Harry, moving slowly behind the dark glasses covering half her face, all seated around the dining table by a window thrown wide to the ocean breezes. They took their places with barely a nod from the others already tucking into the delicious spread of food across the table.

Harry merely looked at them, and scolded them once, “Stop smiling so much, the glare is hurting my head,” before turning back to her tea and toast.

Mrs. Watson and Mycroft chatted amiably about the housing market around the greater London area, while Sherlock and John heaped food on to their plates, and enjoyed winding their feet together under the table. Sherlock was glad that John was a lefty as it freed up his right to interlock fingers with Sherlock’s left, and tug their joined hands onto his lap. Sherlock felt so much happiness bubbling up inside him, it was a wonder he wasn’t floating across the room. Every time he glanced at John, he returned his look with such melting gazes, that it took no small effort not to just climb into John's lap, and wrap himself around him right then and there. He hoped they'd have some time alone soon before he completely embarrassed himself in front of witnesses. If anyone noticed they were eating their breakfast one-handed, they kindly didn’t say a word.

When the meal was over, Mrs. Watson graciously thanked Mycroft again for the use of the house, and he murmured polite words in reply. He took Sherlock aside before he whisked off, and pressed an envelope into his hands.

“Here, I took the liberty of changing some gold into Muggle pounds.”

“So kind of you, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, surprised at the gift.

“Oh, don’t thank me too much. It’s from your account.”

“Of course, still, thank you.”

Mycroft harrumphed. “Please put the _family_ villa back where it belongs today. I have cleaners coming, and important guests to stay next weekend.”

“I’ll do it as soon as we clear breakfast,” Sherlock promised.

With a nod, and final good-bye to the Watsons, Mycroft spun in place, and disappeared. Harry squeaked, and spilled tea down her front. Mrs. Watson insisted on a final walk back up to the first floor verandah, and John and Sherlock followed her while Harry slunk back to her room.

"It really is a lovely view out here," Mrs. Watson said, inhaling deeply of the salty air. A few people had gathered on the white sandy beach below, and the sun was scorching overhead. "Now let's go downstairs, and see it from outside again before we let it go."

When they stepped outside to view the villa as a small conservatory in the garden, a neighbor hanging over the fence caught them by surprise.

“June, what a lovely new addition to your house. I didn’t even see it being built!” The thin woman waved at them.

“Oh, erm, yes, thank you, Deidre. It was a fast job. The company came and did it in a day. Glad you like it.”

“You’ll have to give me the name of them. My sister wants to do an add-on to her place. She’d appreciate a fast company.”

“Ah, I’ve forgotten the exact name of it. I’ll have to see if I can find the paperwork later for you.” Mrs. Watson smiled nervously.

“Blimey, would you look at that.” The neighbor on the other side of the house was now hanging over his fence, and pointing at the conservatory as well.

Mrs. Watson talked for several minutes to both of them before she and the boys could escape back into the villa, being careful to only open the door wide enough to slip through, and not give away any peeks of the fantastical inside.

“What do we do now?” John’s mum asked, biting at her lower lip.

“I believe I have a solution,” Sherlock said. “I don’t want to have to use a memory charm on half your neighborhood, so I’ll just put a conservatory here that looks like what they see outside. It won’t take up any more room than the villa, and it will be permanent.”

“You won’t be stealing it from someone?” Mrs. Watson's brows flew upward.

“I promise it will be fine,” Sherlock said, deflecting slightly.

After Mrs. Watson agreed, they cleared out all the breakfast things, and returned to the Watsons' terraced house. John gave him a quick kiss before joining his mum in the kitchen, leaving Sherlock alone in the dining room to fix his magic. This was a bit more tricky, sending the inside of the villa back to its proper place while maintaining the illusion of the room outside until a true conservatory could be slotted into its place. Never let it be said he didn’t enjoy a challenge though. Sherlock rolled up his sleeves and got to work. It took him over an hour, but he was pleased with the results when he had finished.

“All done?” John asked as he emerged.

“It’s done.” Sherlock smiled. He invited John and his mum to take a look. Mrs. Watson was delighted.

“Oh, Sherlock, thank you, this is marvelous,” she cried, clapping her hands together as they stepped out to admire the windows, the plants, and the padded benches of the conservatory.

“The lower windows all crank open,” Sherlock said, demonstrating on one, "if you want it to feel more like the outside."

“I couldn’t have asked for anything better if I had designed it myself,” Mrs. Watson said, pulling him into a hug.

Sherlock patted her awkwardly on the back until she released him, stepping away with suspiciously bright eyes.

“Well, now. I’ve got to go into the office this afternoon for a few hours, but I’ve got the whole day off tomorrow. What shall we do? The zoo? The art museum? Bowling?”

“A zoo?” Sherlock swiveled her way. “A zoo with real Muggle animals?”

“That looks like a win.” John chuckled. “How about the zoo, then.”

“Okay.” John’s mum nodded. “I might be too late for a big dinner tonight. Should we get take-away again?”

“Erm, I have some money,” Sherlock said reaching into his pocket to pull out the crumpled bills. "I could take us all to a restaurant you like. Will this be enough, do you think?”

John took the handful of bills from him and counted. “Yeah, I’d say 300 pounds is enough for dinner, though you don’t have to spend it all. You might want to get something from the shops later.”

“All right,” Sherlock agreed, happy to have money to share with John’s family.

“Oh, honey, after giving us a conservatory, you don’t have to buy dinner too," Mrs. Watson protested.

“But I’d really like to," Sherlock insisted.

“All right. Where shall we go?” She looked about brightly.

“Chinese,” John said. “I’ve been craving those egg rolls at the Hunan Palace for weeks.”

“Fabulous. Why don’t we say around 6:30? I’ll call in a reservation from the office.” John’s mum smiled, and left them to get ready for work.

John and Sherlock looked at each other for about thirty seconds . . . before jumping into each other's arms and attacking each other's mouths. When they pulled away for a breath, they noticed the neighbor called Deidre was still hanging over the fence, peering at the windows.

“Erm, why don’t we take this inside?” John laughed.

“Your neighbors are a nosy lot,” Sherlock grumped as they moved into the house proper, closing the folding doors behind.

“That’s true. I suppose it keeps down crime in the area though. I never worry about mum here.”

“Do you mind if I borrow Simpson?” Sherlock asked John about his owl. “I need to send a few letters, and two owls will make it quicker.”

“Sure, for what?” John asked.

“Well, I need to let Mummy know I’m doing some redecorating on our of our country properties, and hire some contractors to put on a new conservatory.”

John laughed. “So you were lying when you told my mum you hadn’t stolen it from somewhere?”

“I wasn’t lying. I have part ownership in the estate, and it isn’t one that mummy frequents very often.”

“Jesus, Sherlock. How rich are you?” John asked.

“Does it matter?” Sherlock countered.

“No, it’s just . . . my house must look so small and shabby compared to what you’re used to.” John looked down.

“John.” Sherlock took his hands in his own. “You house looks wonderful to me.” He said it with such fervor that John had no choice but to look up with a smile and kiss him.

Once John had found him paper and writing material, and Sherlock had sent the owls off with the necessary letters, they relocated to the living room. John turned the telly to some boring show, and they settled onto the sofa. They watched the programme for nearly two full minutes before John crawled into Sherlock’s lap.

“Now, where were we?” John smiled down at him.

“You were kissing me senseless,” Sherlock said, pretending to look thoughtful.

“Oh, like this?” John asked, ducking his head to brush his lips over Sherlock’s.

“No, more like this,” Sherlock said, pulling John in to capture his mouth with a deep soul-searing snog. John pushed his hands into Sherlock's curls, and tugged slightly as he matched the kiss with a passion of his own.

“Ewwww, can you two love birds tone it down a little?” Harry stomped into the room. She threw a cushion at them before changing the channel, and flopping into an armchair. “ _The Big Bang Theory_ is on, and I’d rather watch it without all that spit swapping going on.”

Sherlock flashed back to all the times he’d suffered through Maria wrapped around John, and felt himself flush red.

“RELAX, Harry, we were just going out,” John said. He pulled a face at her back as he chivvied Sherlock out of the room and into the hall. “Unless you wanted to watch _The Big Bang_?” John asked him, considering.

“No, not especially.” Sherlock shrugged. “But I’m happy to do whatever you want.”

“Hmmm, I’m not so sure I like this completely agreeable Sherlock. Where’s that grumpy bloke who makes me watch my step all the time?” John teased, tugging Sherlock closer so that their hips aligned.

“I think you shagged him insensate last night,” Sherlock said.

“Ah.” John gulped. “Tell me that great brain isn’t completely broken. Quick, how do you resolve a vector into Cartesian coordinates?”

“That’s easy,” Sherlock said, answering readily, but halfway through, John derailed him utterly when he leaned in to nuzzle at his throat.

“God, half the time we were doing Arithmancy tutoring, I kept finding myself just watching your hands, or your mouth,” John admitted kissing under his jaw.

Embarrassingly, they were snogging heatedly again when John’s mum clicked down the stairs in her heels, swinging her purse and keys. They’d jumped apart and were trying to look casual, leaning against the wall as she stepped into the hallway, but she didn’t look very convinced.

“All right, lads. See you at six,” she said. “Harry, please move your things out of the dryer!” she directed toward the living room before heading out the door.

“Right, bye mum.” John waved as she left.

Harry popped out of the living room as soon as the front door closed. “Is she gone? Listen, I’ve got a couple of friends coming over in a bit. Are you two going to be here, or can you . . . be elsewhere?”

“Yeah, I know we’d cramp your style. Don’t worry we’re going out,” John reassured her. “I always like to visit my old stomping grounds when I get home, and I haven’t had a chance yet. Come on Sherlock, let’s see what joys the neighborhood has to offer.”

"Alright, John."

 

***

After some snogging in John’s room, and changing clothes, and finding their shoes, and some more snogging, they finally set off on their adventure before Harry’s too-cool crowd showed up.

Sherlock was happy to follow John down the street to a squat brick building that used to be his primary school - especially when John reached over to hold his hand as they walked, threading their fingers together.

“It’s funny how much smaller everything is when you come back to visit.” John shook his head as they walked around the school.

“Except you’re the one who’s gotten bigger,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, I guess so,” John agreed.

As they rounded the building, John led them to a small play area. It had a few swings, a slide, and a climbing area, everything looking sadly faded and worn.

“We used to play out here, and we'd always smell smoke from those woods." John pointed. "We'd say it was a big forest fire coming after us, scare ourselves silly. When I was older, I realized it was just the secondary school kids skiving off, smoking in the trees.”

“What, pot?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

“Well, I guess they might have occasionally. Mostly it was probably just tobacco. Come on," John nodded toward the wooded area. "I’ve never actually walked through here.”

They dropped hands to climb a small rise past the playground, finding a trail that led them through the stand of fir trees. Past the woods, they broke out on the other side to discover a few picnic tables and some playing fields behind a larger school. Speak of the devil, a couple of girls were lounging at one of the tables, smoking away while watching a group of boys kick a football around.

“Hey Johnny!” One of the smokers hailed them as they drew closer. It was that girl from the shops who had talked John’s ear off the other day.

“Hi Ella.” John waved back.

“You remember Candy?” she said, gesturing with her lit cigarette toward the girl sitting across from her.

“Oh, yeah, hi, Candy.” John lifted his hand again.

“You remember John Watson, don’t you?” Ella smiled widely. “He went away to that posh school up north? Got some scholarship because of his dad?”

“Nice to see ya,” Candy said before taking a long pull from her cigarette. She had a nasal way of speaking that wasn’t at all pleasant. Sherlock watched as she blew a long cloud of smoke out the side of her mouth.

John nodded politely. “You too.”

“You want a ciggy, John?” Ella extended the crumpled pack on the table toward him.

“No thanks,” John said.

“How about your fit friend?” Candy leaned so far over to hold her pack toward Sherlock that her neckline fell open exposing the tops of her breasts. “Fancy a smoke, luv?” She smiled.

Sherlock merely shook his head.

“Your friend, he’s from that school of yours, right?” Ella pressed. “What’s your name again? It was something long . . .” She creased up her forehead trying to remember “Hemlock?”

Before Sherlock could speak, John jumped in. “He’s called ‘Sherlock.’” John paused a moment, and then seeming to decide something, reached out to take Sherlock’s hand. “And he’s not my friend, he’s my boyfriend.”

The girls’ eyes grew round in their heads. “Oh get on with you.” Ella laughed as though John were teasing her. Candy giggled.

“I’m not pulling your leg. We’re going out," John insisted.

“It’s quite true.” Sherlock spoke for the first time, looking down at the two girls intently.

For some reason, the girls believed Sherlock the first time he said it. They seemed to draw into themselves, sitting straighter as if bracing for something.

“It’s just like my Da said,” Candy breathed in hushed tones. “Regular kids go away to them toff schools, and they make them all into poofters there.” She punctuated her sentence with another deep pull from her cigarette.

“That’s ridiculous,” John snorted. “Look at my sister Harry. She’s as gay as the day is long, and she never went away to public school.”

“Yeah, I think it’s just the boys that it happens to.” Candy nodded sagely.

“Your father is quite wrong. Studies show that sexual orientation is neither created nor destroyed from external influences.” Sherlock informed them.

Candy blinked a few times. “So which one of you is the girl, and which one is the boy?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

“CANDY!” Ella cried. “Ignore her, she was dropped on her head at birth.”

“Look it was nice seeing you again, but we really need to get going,” John cut in smoothy, and made their good-byes before any more inanities could flow their way. John nodded politely to the girls, and led Sherlock away, but he couldn’t help noticing how John dropped his hand, and marched ahead as soon as they stepped away from the picnic tables.

“John, you don’t have to tell anyone . . .” Sherlock started when he caught up to him at the main road.

“No, stop,” John said turning. “I’m proud to be with you. I don’t care who knows. Forget those girls, they’re idiots.”

Sherlock couldn’t help grinning at him.

“What? What are on about now, you mad thing?” John huffed up at him, still clearly ruffled.

“Boyfriend.” Sherlock smiled.

“Ah, yeah. I hope that’s okay I said that.” John scratched the back of his neck. “I didn’t exactly ask you first . . .”

“No, it’s fine. I like it.” Sherlock kept smiling.

“All right then. Come on, I’m feeling peckish. There’s an excellent fish and chip shop up this way. If you’re good I’ll let you buy me lunch.”

“I think this is something that good boyfriends do, yes?” Sherlock dropped his eyelids, shooting a sideways leer at John as he relaced their fingers together.

“Okay, you,” John growled, but a smile was tugging at his lips as he said it.

 

***

 

“Yoo hoo, boys, are you up?” Mrs. Watson’s voice floated up the stairs. “I’m making waffles for breakfast.”

John blinked into the light slipping in around his bedroom window curtains. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, and focused on Sherlock lying not a few centimeters away.

“Good morning,” Sherlock said smiling at him.

“Good morning, sexy boyfriend.” John grinned back.

They’d taken to cramming into John’s single bed to sleep at night, tangled together to share the small space, and not minding a bit.

“God you smell good. I think I’d rather have you for breakfast.” John leaned in to bury his face in Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock worked an arm under John to hold him closely. The one problem with sleeping nearly on top of each other was what to do with the exta arm trapped underneath. John sneaked a hand down to cup Sherlock’s rear, pulling their hips even closer. Sherlock made that sound in the back of his throat that John seemed to enjoy very much.

“Cat,” John said fondly against the skin of Sherlock’s neck, and kissed his way up to his ear.

They were snogging quite happily when a rap at the door startled them. “Come on you two. Don’t make me come in there. You’ve a train to catch, and you need to get up,” John’s mum called.

“Okay, mum, just a minute, we’re coming,” John tossed over his shoulder.

“Well, we aren’t coming yet, but give us a few minutes, and it could be arranged,” Sherlock chuckled quietly as he mouthed at John’s collar bone.

“God, you.” John grinned at him.

The week at John’s had flown by. They’d enjoyed dinner at John’s favorite Chinese place, a trip to the zoo, and the planetarium later with his mum. Harry had ended up having a screaming row with Mrs. Watson three days into the visit, and stomped back to her flat at uni, and the rest of the week had gone much quieter. John had dragged Sherlock to a movie theater where they’d watched something called “Spider Man” that John had clearly loved, and Sherlock had liked well enough because he got to hold hands with John in the dark through the whole thing.

Much hand holding, and snogging, and late night shenanigans had filled the week as well. Sherlock was not looking forward to returning to Hogwarts and separate beds in different wings of the castle.

“I suppose we should get up and finish packing.” John sighed, resisting the tug of Sherlock’s teeth at his earlobe.

Sherlock reached blindly under the bed, and came back with his wand. He flicked his wrist and commanded “Pack.” Obligingly, their remaining items rose from their places around the room to find a space in their trunks. A soft thumping at the bedroom door had John up and padding over in his tee shirt and pants to open it. A neat stack of clean underwear and socks from the laundry room whooshed across the room to wiggle themselves into the luggage.

“I can’t wait until I can do magic outside of school.” John grinned.

“John.” Sherlock’s eyes pleaded with him to return to the bed for a few extra minutes, and he obligingly shut the door, and slid back under the covers to fit himself against Sherlock.

Sherlock held him so tightly, that John whispered against his ear with some concern. “Hey, hey, what’s up?”

“I’m just being silly,” Sherlock said quietly shaking his head.

“Fine, be silly with me. What’s wrong?”

“I was just thinking about how nice this week has been, but it’s been a bubble out of time.”

“Yeah. We’re about to go back to the crush, aren’t we? You have NEWTS coming up, I have Quidditch, and everything else.”

“I’ve gotten a bit spoiled having you all to myself," Sherlock admitted

“Hey, we may be busy, but you’ll still have me,” John said.

“Will I?”

“Every night of the week. I was thinking we could set up a schedule, which nights we spend in my bed, and which nights we spend in yours . . . unless you get sick of me that is.”

“God, John.” Sherlock held him even tighter if that were possible.

John stroked his back, and nuzzled into his hair. "I'll take that as a yes."

“I’m so lucky to have found you,” Sherlock said finally. “What if we’d never served that detention night together?”

John chuckled. “Oh, I think we might have found a way to meet anyway. I probably would have asked you to tutor me in Arithmancy regardless. You’re Professor Mobius’s favorite student, and drop-dead gorgeous. I’d have screwed my courage up to ask you.”

Sherlock felt himself flush all over. “John? . . . I . . . I think . . . I love you.”

“God, I love you too,” John said taking Sherlock’s mouth in a fierce kiss.

Mrs. Watson finally had to come up, and stick her head in the door to call a halt to all the snogging, yelling at them to get dressed, and come have a waffle before it was time to go. “Honestly, it’s not as if you two are saying good-bye to each other!” she cried.

 

***

 

Kings Cross was its usual flurry of activity. Sherlock could always pick out the magical families from the Muggles in the crowd with their mismatched clothes, and their carriers with owls and cats held against them. He smiled to see so much of his kind again. It had been a wonderful week in the Muggle world, but he was missing home.

John’s mum teared up as she hugged them both good-bye. Sherlock surprised himself when he didn’t flinch at her embrace, and his arms wound around her to return her hug.

“Sherlock, it was lovely having you to visit,” she said. “Come back anytime.”

“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Watson.”

“John, make sure you write. I like to know what you’re up to,” she scolded John before pulling him into her arms for a final squeeze. “Oh, look at you. You’re all grown up now, aren’t you?” she sniffed, holding him at arms’ length to view him. “Your dad would have been so proud.”

“Thanks mum,” John said, letting her ruffle his hair a last time.

With a final wave, they pushed through the barrier with their trunks to arrive on platform nine and three-quarters where the real bedlam ruled. They managed to work their way through the crowds of excited kids and waving parents, stowing their luggage before boarding the train to look for a compartment with familiar faces.

They met up with Dom and Tom in the corridor sporting their new yellow Wimbourne Wasps caps. Their favourite Quidditch team had beaten their rivals, the Appleby Arrows, last week, and they were over the moon about it. They found Owen and Teddy saving them places in a compartment, and joined them, quickly filling out the seats before anyone else tried to hone in. Poor Teddy was a long-time Arrows fan, and the twins spent the next half hour giddily conjuring yellow confetti and streamers out of the air to rain down over his head. “All right, enough you two!” He cried wiping confetti out of his eyes for the third time.

“So, how was everyone’s break?” Teddy asked, “Besides the sodding Wasps’ win?” He glared at the chuckling twins, and morphed his hair pale blue in honor of the fallen Arrows.

“It was great. I got to ride my cousin's motorcycle.” Owen grinned.

“Erm, we started going out,” John said a bit awkwardly reaching over to scoop up Sherlock’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

Absolute silence reigned in the compartment for a minute.

“Brilliant,” Teddy said.

“About time.” Dom nodded.

“Fine.” Tom eyed them “But no snogging at the dinner table.”

“Yeah, and hang a tie on the door if anything is going on in the dorm,” Owen said. “I don’t fancy walking in on any nature documentaries.”

“Sure, of course,” John said weakly. Sherlock looked at him, and chuckled shyly.

Talk turned to the upcoming League Cup, and Owen passed around a bag of chocolate biscuits from home, and soon they were laughing, and talking, and chewing at the same time.

Sherlock looked over at John, and raised their still-twined hands to drop a kiss to the back of John’s.

“Oi, get a room you two,” Tom cried, and flicked his wand to shoot confetti over the two of them.

Quick as a wink, Sherlock had drawn his wand, and turned the tide back, sending a shower of harmless snowflakes swirling down over Tom and Dom.

“Wicked!” Dom grinned, shaking snow off his hair. “Nice one, Sherlock.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock bowed his head, slipping his wand away to appreciative applause.

“Hey, did any of you lot hear that _Gretchen and the Gremlins_ might be playing at Hogsmeade in May?” Teddy asked.

“Naw, that’s just a rumor, they’re supposed to be in Berlin in May,” Tom said. “Where did you hear that?”

Sherlock sat back, and closed his eyes, letting the motion of the train rock him. John released his hand to lean in, and join the conversation. Sherlock would have mourned its absence, but John's thigh remained a soothing presence pressed warmly alongside his own. He had to smile when John slipped an arm around him, and let him use his shoulder as a pillow. The voices buzzed pleasantly around him like lazy bees as they sped across the countryside. Sherlock sighed, and settled easily into a nap.

********


End file.
